


Dreamcatcher

by inb4invert, SweetSorcery



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Credence Barebone, Coffee Shops, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Daddy Kink, Dream Sex, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Male Slash, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, POV Alternating, Pining, Protective Original Percival Graves, Romance, Slash, Smitten Credence Barebone, Smitten Original Percival Graves, Top Original Percival Graves, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inb4invert/pseuds/inb4invert, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: What if you met the man of your dreams, butonlyin your dreams? How far would you go to find the real thing?
Relationships: Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves
Comments: 141
Kudos: 232
Collections: ❤️ Gradence for the Soul ❤️





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   

> 
> There will be more tags added later but, as usual from us, no nasty surprises. :)

Credence has overslept again, and this is becoming quite a habit. 

He hasn’t slept in enough to make himself late for work, it’s not that bad. At least, not yet. But he had wanted to stay right where he was, safe and warm under the covers, wrapped up deep in dreams. If he could have had his way, he would’ve snoozed the alarm well into the afternoon. 

Instead, he’s riding the subway to the coffee shop he’s been employed with for nearly 3 months now, the very last train that will get him there on time, in fact. It’s standing room only at this time of day, and he’s holding on to the railing with one hand and yawning into the other despite what should have been more than enough sleep. But it’s like his body knows where it should really be, like no part of him wants to leave his dreams for any amount of time, if it can be helped.

And it’s all because he keeps dreaming of that _man_… the one he’s only ever seen while he sleeps: dark, glittering eyes full of warmth and mirth, salt and pepper hair Credence can almost smell even now on the crowded train--which is odd, since he’s not sure he’s ever smelled something in a _dream_ before. Something masculine and subtle, a touch of spice to it. The brush of faint stubble against Credence’s skin as he nuzzles in for another kiss, whispering something soft that he can’t quite remember now.

Credence jerks his head up and looks around at the other passengers, feeling almost caught at something and realising at the same time that he may have just drifted off into genuine sleep again, standing right on his feet. He should be alarmed, but he can’t muster it. This definitely isn’t normal, but if it were to stop any time soon, he couldn’t quite imagine anything worse than that. But dwelling on the dreams isn’t the best idea now, not here, where such thoughts might lead him into an embarrassing state he’s in no position to hide while standing pressed between strangers on a crowded subway train.

He gets to the shop, and it’s just as packed and busy as his commute had been. Immediately he regrets the idea that having to absorb himself in his work will cut into his freedom to just linger over his dreams from the night before. Again, he should see this as a problem, something abnormal he should try to curb right away, but he can’t ever think of time spent with that nameless man--even if it isn’t real--as something bad. It couldn’t be any further opposite, it’s the best part of his life, easily, even if it happens when he’s not even conscious. He doesn’t know if this is escapism, or some delayed reaction to everything he went through before finally getting away from home. Either way, he doesn’t care, because it’s the safest and most cared for he’s ever felt.

Tina is frowning at him as he struggles to tie the knot of his green apron at the small of his back, and after a moment she _tsks_ softly and turns him around to do it herself. Credence feels a quick touch of guilt at just having thought how much a stranger in a dream makes him feel cared for, when he knows how Tina and her sister have looked after him these past months. Yet somehow, it’s an altogether different kind of caring, something warm and platonic and entirely _sisterly_. The man in the dreams: _he_ makes Credence feel absolutely _seen_. Seen and found not even a single hair lacking. _Adored_.

In comparison, Tina’s affection is just on the friendly side of brusque. “Have you been sleeping okay?” she asks him, scrutinising the shadows underneath his eyes. “Not nightmares again?” 

Credence thinks right away of the sound of water softly lapping, the giddy swoop in his belly at the swipe of a tongue over his lips, seeking entrance. They’d been on a boat, or maybe close to the beach… something he can’t quite catch again now in the bustling insistence of the day. He blushes. “No, no… not nightmares. Just…. sort of sleeping too much, almost. Maybe.”

***

The coffee Percival Graves frowns at hasn’t really done anything untoward. It’s simply the wrong taste. It’s too strong, which means it’s in danger of overpowering the taste he’s convinced he still has on his tongue: the taste of plump lips parting ever so slightly, the innocent offering sweeter than the most delicious dessert. They were flushed with colour, too, reminding him of strawberry parfait.

He opens a line to his P.A. “Newt, when you go down to the cafeteria, get me something sweet.”

“Okay, Mr Graves?” Newt sounds surprised, which is no wonder, as his boss is not known to ask for sweets mid-morning.

“Something… strawberry. Raspberry will do, in a pinch. Thanks.” He closes the line and pushes away the coffee, then taps his fingers on his desk while contemplating his inbox.

How is he expected to concentrate, when there’s nothing more appealing right now than to head home, climb back into bed, and get back to what he was doing there last--kissing the most delicious lips in the most perfect face he’s ever seen. Or rather, _never_ seen.

Not in the waking world, at least, which is where he’s currently trying to function. Something which is becoming more and more difficult when the most ludicrous things somehow remind him of one of those dreams he’s been having lately.

If he was prone to blushing, he would be now, just remembering the baffled look the cab driver had given him when he’d simply stayed seated, probably smiling like a fool because the stops and starts on the drive had reminded him of the motion of the sea against the raft they’d been on. Just he and the boy of his dreams, gently cradled and nudged by turns, on ocean waves, as they drifted towards the beach on tied together bamboo trunks.

“I can’t drive you up the outside of the building, mister.” The cab driver, clearly out of patience, had nonetheless been tipped generously for unwittingly extending the thrall of the dream.

Graves finds himself trying to recall how they’d ended up on that raft, heading for what had, no doubt, been a desert island. Once upon a time, in his more cynical days, he might have rolled his eyes at the conveniently romantic setting conjured up by his subconscious. Those cynical days are well and truly over, and had been since the dreams had first begun.

He gives up on his mail, sighs, and stands up, absently straightening out his suit on the way to the large window looking out over Manhattan. He has the best office, and the best view, in the company. Possibly the best in the building. A sizable part of New York City lies stretched out 32 floors beneath his feet. Yet neither the cityscape, nor the fine leather and marble interior behind him, hold any appeal to him now.

He’d trade in his office for the next five minutes of that dream, and his whole job for one glimpse of that delightful young man during his waking hours. But that’s the trouble--he’s just a dream… a beautiful, enticing, perfect dream, obviously too good to be true. 

***

Credence is sitting in the break room, breathing in the steam of his macchiato as though the smell alone might wake him up. If only he really _were_ asleep, back in the arms of the mystery man who has already become an obsession. If he were an artist, Credence would probably have tried to draw or paint him by now, even knowing there was no way he could render him as handsome as he always was in dreams. He sighs, closing his eyes just for the briefest moment before Queenie pops through the door, breaking his reverie. 

"Hey honey, Teenie says you're a little off today. Feeling kinda drowsy, she said?" 

Credence looks up, dropping his shoulders, and decides then and there that he probably _should_ talk to someone, and if anyone might be a good candidate for that, it's Queenie. It's still a novelty to him, having people in his life that he can safely share something so personal with, especially something so _odd_.

"I keep having these dreams, Queenie. Like every night."

Her brow creases with a touch of worry, mouth already forming into a sympathetic pout. "Aww, honey. More nightmares?"

Credence sighs again, then takes a deep breath. Part of him wants to keep the dream man entirely to himself, like even speaking about him out loud might somehow jinx it. "That's the thing, Queenie. They're not nightmares, they're good dreams. About, um. They're… about a guy."

Immediately, Queenie's whole demeanor changes, and Credence feels the shift--he's said it, out loud, he's made it _real_ somehow. Queenie sets down the tray of pastries she's been holding and comes to join him at the rickety little table littered with empty cups. "A guy?" She asks softly, but Credence can hear the excitement in her voice, just barely restrained. She knows he's sensitive, she doesn't want to startle him or push for too much, but he can only imagine what big news this must seem to her. "Who is he?"

Credence puts his head in his hands and shakes it. "I don't know," he mumbles.

Queenie sits up straight as a rod. Now she's the startled one. "Credence, did you just… have an _anonymous encounter_?" There's still a touch of scandalised excitement to the way she says it, even while she whispers the words.

A laugh stutters out of him as he looks back up and meets her eyes. "No, Queenie… god, _no_." For a second, she looks almost disappointed. "I don't know who he is because I've never actually met him. It's just… dreams. All these recurring dreams, always with the same guy."

Queenie's eyes widen and he can tell she wasn't expecting this. "Oh. Well, can you describe him?"

He shrugs even as he rolls his eyes at himself in frustration. "I mean, 'tall, dark, and handsome' sounds pretty cliche, but I don't know how else to say it. And that doesn't even cover the half of it, anyway."

The smile Queenie gives him is growing pleased, now that they're back on her favourite ground again. "So it _is_ 'those kind' of dreams, then."

His blush is all the answer she needs, apparently, and when she giggles, he quickly clarifies, “They’ve been pretty innocent so far, really.”

“So far.” She looks unsurprised that he sounds hopeful and leans forward expectantly. “And you have no idea who he is?”

Credence sighs. “No. He probably doesn’t even exist. I mean, if I’d ever seen him, I’d _remember_!”

“He’s real memorable, huh?”

Giving her a slightly desperate look, Credence admits, “I can’t stop thinking about him, Queenie! As soon as I wake up, all I want to do is go right back to sleep.”

She looks sympathetic, but it’s clear there’s really nothing she can do to help.

***

In his lunch break, Graves’ feet wander aimlessly down Broadway, while his eyes move over the city’s populace with purpose. The odds of him just stumbling over his dream boy, if he even exists, at the right time and in the right place, are astronomically bad; he’s enough of a realist to know that, but enough of a romantic to hope for a miracle anyway.

For a few breathless moments, when his gaze is drawn to a store window, he thinks: This is it! He’s been pulled here for a reason. He hurries to the large poster advertising: _A Week in Paradise… book your romantic getaway to Bora Bora now!_

He scoffs. Bora Bora may have it all--crystal clear water, white beaches, tropical sea life and over-the-water luxury bungalows. Unless it has _him_, he’s not interested.

As he begins to turn away, he catches a glimpse of a tall figure with dark hair, just sliding into a chair behind a desk. That’s it! That’s why he came here. Triumphantly, he pushes open the door and strides inside the agency, already several steps towards the unsuspecting young travel agent.

“May I help you, sir?” he says, grinning smugly, as though he’s already made a sale.

Graves stops in his tracks. The height is right, and the hair… well, almost. Nothing else is even reminiscent of the gentle, vulnerable boy occupying his mind with worrying constancy. “No, thank you. I took the wrong door.” He turns and leaves, deflated. 

Back out on the street, Graves gives himself a stern talking to. He knows how ridiculous it is, going around Manhattan like some lunatic, looking for a boy from a _dream_, of all things. He’s never been one to believe in any sort of mumbo-jumbo: even as a boy he’d been caught more than once in the pews, rolling his eyes in disbelief throughout Mass. And it feels… almost selfish, if Graves were ever one to criticise himself for his own desires. He has everything he wanted for himself in life and more, all the things he worked hard for, anything money can buy. But that’s just it-- here is something he seemingly _can’t_ have, and it’s the one thing he wants more than anything else in the whole world.

All his wealth and luxuries seem empty to him in a way they never have done before, when he wakes up each morning from a place that feels like heaven itself, only to find his bed empty yet again. Almost as if the dreams are taunting him, a cruel reminder of exactly what’s missing from his life. Thinking back on that young travel agent from moments before, he realises that there will be no replacing the boy of his dreams. No one, no matter how close they come to looking like him (as if anyone could), will ever be able to fill his place or come even near to bringing Graves that sublime contentment he clings to each day in his first waking moments. He wonders if it will always be like this now, himself, alone, chasing after the phantom kisses of someone his mind likely conjured up out of sheer loneliness. Thinking about it now, he feels like a man in some old fairy tale designed to teach children a valuable moral--the miserly prince cursed to pine in vain.

He turns on his heel and heads back to the office, determined to lose himself in paperwork and forget those crimson lips he still can’t help but hope to see again come nightfall.

***

There was a time when Credence found it hard to fall asleep. Bad memories of the years spent under his foster mother’s iron rule used to surface with a vengeance when he needed them least--namely at night, when he was trying to relax enough… to _forget_ enough... to find rest. Tossing and turning in his room in the apartment he shared with the Goldstein sisters, it was a struggle at first just to sleep at all; when he did, he had nothing but nightmares. Until that first dream which wasn’t.

He’d fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion that night. He vaguely remembered that when he woke up the following morning, feeling refreshed but, more importantly, feeling soothed.

The dream had begun with him huddled under the sheets, tears streaming down his cheeks and saturating the pillow he held clutched in his hands. Then the bed dipped and strong arms closed around him. “Shhh, I’m here,” said a warm voice, and he was drawn back against the solid shape of a man--dressed in pyjamas, as he was. “Rest now. I’ll look after you. You’re safe with me.”

Credence melted into the embrace and listened to the voice as it whispered soothing reassurances and told him to let go of everything that troubled him. His tears soon stopped flowing, and he turned in the other’s arms.

Even in the dream, his heart skipped a beat at his first glimpse of the man’s face in the sparse glow of the night light. He raised his hand between them and touched a cheek, hoping his eyes conveyed his gratitude, because he couldn’t hope to make his voice function.

Dark eyes gazed into his for a long moment, glittering with a strange shared joy as of recognition. The hand Credence pressed to the other’s cheek was taken and his fingertips kissed with almost painful tenderness.

He whimpered softly, and the man let go of his hand, cupped the back of his head, and pressed his gentle lips to Credence’s brow.

“Sleep. Rest.” The instructions were whispered against his skin. “You’re not alone anymore.”

He fell asleep, within the dream, and woke up rested and feeling warm and content, with the soothing presence clinging to him like a shield of light throughout the day.

The dreams continued after that. Every single night, the man was there--with reassurances at first, and comfort, and words that grew more tender, and more sensual, over time.

His kisses, too, went from fatherly almost-blessings to gentle persuasions. There were no demands made of him, only requests and, over time, Credence went to sleep more and more eager for kisses which coaxed his mouth open hungrily, and touches which left him still feeling electrified with expectation on waking.

Last night’s dream stayed with him all day, and it’s with much anticipation that he climbs into bed, hoping for… he’s not even sure what, just… _more_.__


	2. Chapter 2

Graves is flying, and he’s not alone. They’ve been dancing, a waltz perhaps, or maybe just holding each other, softly swaying. It doesn’t matter anymore, because they’ve lifted off the ground, spiralling slowly still held in each other’s embrace. It feels as natural as breathing, and so familiar--a gentle buoyancy just beneath their feet that lets them push right off the ground and upwards as though it’s where they’ve always belonged.

It’s all to do with the boy in his arms, he knows. He also knows that his arms are exactly where the boy belongs as well; the knowledge swoops in his stomach with a triumphant sort of _rightness_ that echoes the easy familiarity of their aerial drift. The young man is laughing, a sweet and thrilling sound, and his eyes smile along with his lips as he gazes at Graves with such soft fondness. He leans his head in close on Graves’ shoulder, and as soon as Graves feels the tentative press of a warm kiss against the skin of his neck, the lightness is gone and a sense of urgency takes its place.

“I want to take you to my room,” he says in a rough murmur, delivering a hasty kiss of his own to the boy’s temple. Just that easily, they’re there: settling down onto the red satin sheets of his own bed, and already he can barely recall where they were just moments ago. This is the only place he wants, or needs, to be.

The feeling of arousal that’s come over him is so heavy it’s like he’s nearly drowning in the sensation--it’s there, even in the pulse of his blood, the taste in his mouth. He’s so hard it makes him whimper, and the boy moans beneath him as soon as Graves realises his own state, as though they’re now so tangled up in one another every sensation is simply shared. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than that; the sound of it goes through him like a shot, a jolt of electricity all the way up his spine. Graves is sure he can feel every single hair on his body, charged with the potency of it, the vibrant life. He kisses the red lips, open and panting for him, feels the soft give of their plush flesh, and even though their mouths are pressed together, he can still hear the boy groan out the single word: _you_. That’s all it takes, he’s going to come…

At the sound of his alarm, there is a long moment where Graves simply lays there feeling utterly bereft at what it has cost him.

***

Credence lets out a mingled gasp and moan on waking, his body perched on the verge of an orgasm cruelly kept from him by the sudden, causeless loss of the dream. He pants, eyes darting towards the alarm clock which isn’t due to wake him for another twenty minutes.

“No…” He feels like crying, even while his body is still thrumming with arousal. The slightest movement, the barely-there pressure of the sheet against his hardness, makes him whimper. He’s leaking steadily within the confines of his pyjama pants, torn between desperation for release and embarrassment.

There was none of that embarrassment in the dream, not with _him_, only need and urgency. God, he wants that back, he wants to come so badly.

His hand strays down, but he stops himself. He doesn’t want that. Not his own touch. All he wants is to feel the solid, reassuring weight of the man pressing him into the bed, pressing against him, _into_ him.

Grasping the edges of the mattress, he thrusts his hips up towards that phantom weight, his eyes once again tightly closed in a desperate attempt to re-enter the dream. There’s nothing there, of course, but the sense memory is so fresh, it’s just enough to pretend. The swollen head of his cock weeps with every press of fabric against skin, the electric friction of it, and his movements speed up while he chases the ghost of the dream, gasping with the need to call out a name he doesn’t know.

“Please…” He begs the dream to return. “Please, _please!_” He begs for a release just out of reach until he imagines the pressure is returned in kind… firm flesh rather than yielding cotton, the moans he can’t stop only half his own, every shift of his thighs meeting resistance. “Uhh… oh god…”

The taste of the other’s lips… his searching tongue relentlessly pursuing his own… he can still almost, _almost_ taste and feel it all.

He could swear there’s more dampness spreading in the front of his pyjama pants than just his own emissions, and that finally does it. He comes with a suppressed cry, his face turned sideways into the pillow to muffle himself, as his release pours out of him. In his own mind, at least, mingling with _his_.

It takes a long time before he again becomes aware that yes - he is awake, and yes - his pyjamas, his sheets, and himself, are a sticky mess.

It all coincides with the last vestiges of the dream retreating into his subconscious, to hide there with the previous dream’s images. None of which he can forget. All of them are more precious to him than gold. His mind has become a treasure chest where he hordes them like a starving farmer might horde every scrap of food he can harvest and every stick of firewood he can find.

When he’s under the shower, his heart equally elated as it feels deprived, he tells himself that he can get through the day by tucking into his mental stores until he can restock. Once again, already, he wants nothing more than to go back to sleep.

***

Somehow--through sheer force of will, no doubt--Graves managed not to bring himself over the edge after having been so abruptly awakened from his dream. He doesn’t even know why he held off, exactly, only that it felt almost like some kind of punishment to himself for allowing the alarm to take away what was so rightfully his. But underneath that, there was another sense, a deeper one, of wanting to come only with the boy; doing it on his own, awake, would be almost too much of a demonstration of his loneliness, more than he could bear. 

He’s never been sentimental like this, and now it’s growing into something almost like superstition. A nearly religious feeling, as if he has tapped into something mysterious and profound hidden in the layers of his sleep, a magical presence he can return to again and again. Yes, that’s it exactly: he’s beginning to believe in _the boy_, on some intimate and personal level, and he’s never believed in anything before. It’s nearly humbling.

It still doesn’t make him any more bearable to be around, that quiet sense of something greater. At work, he knows he’s growing curt bordering on surly with his staff, after having been torn away from the place he needs to be only so that he can come _here_. The office lights are garish and almost painfully _false_ compared with the memory of that tropical sun he was so recently kissed under. There’s no dancing here, and certainly no flying. There _is_, however, a stack of paperwork that, if he tries hard enough, he might lose a few mindless hours in, and a cup of coffee gone cold and far too bitter for his newfound sweet tooth. 

He presses the button on his intercom and pages his assistant with the second odd request in as many days. “Newt, I want a coffee, but not something from here in the building. Something… a little more elaborate, I think. And sweet: I want my teeth to hurt, understood?”

“Your… your teeth?” Newt’s soft, uncertain voice gives Graves his first smile of the day. “Of course, yes sir.”

***

Credence has barely made it out behind the counter when the most nervous customer he remembers starts stammering out the most muddled order he’s ever had.

“Yes, well, I… Hello. Um… I don’t really know what to get. It’s for my boss, who… He’s never been a fan of sweet things. Not as far as I know.” The man runs his fingers through his messy mop of reddish-brown hair and squints at the drinks board in confusion. “Until yesterday. I think.”

Credence, despite his distraction, is amused. “That’s sudden.”

“Oh my goodness, tell me about it.” The customer chortles nervously. “I shouldn’t poke fun at him, really. He’s a great boss.”

Credence smiles politely, conscious of the short queue forming behind the indecisive employee. “So, he wants something sweet?” he asks in an attempt to get things moving.

The customer nods. “He seems to have acquired a positive craving for it!” He frowns worriedly. “Dear me, I hope he’s not diabetic.”

“I think it’s probably too soon to worry about that, after two days,” Credence offers.

The other man nods. “You’re probably right.” Another careful examination of the board later, he says, “I’ll just take any kind of sweet coffee… thing. Whatever you suggest.”

Smiling, Credence suggests a mochaccino, and the customer agrees, greatly relieved not to have to make a choice himself.

When Tina turns up to help move things along with the queue, while Queenie takes care of the cake and breakfast orders, Credence takes a little extra time with his own order. The anxiousness of the customer to get it exactly right, and his concern for his boss’ welfare, make him think said boss must be a rather nice man. And being extraordinarily fond of chocolate himself, he greatly respects anyone else’s sweet cravings.

He prepares the steaming hot blend of coffee, milk and chocolate with great care, finishing it off with his new favourite freehand art work--a rather fancy version of a palm tree. Firmly pushing aside all thoughts of last night’s dream, he smiles as he remembers the now more remote, and more innocent, one the night before. On a whim, he adds some squiggles of chocolate syrup at the base of the palm, then dusts chocolate powder over the top of that, and onto the milky foam--where it resembles a fine dusting of distant stars in the night sky.

The customer watches in awe as he snaps on a lid and advises not to jostle the drink too much on the way.

“It smells delicious. I’m sure he’ll like this.”

“I hope so,” Credence says, meaning it.

***

When Graves lifts the lid off the cup Newt has just handed to him, curious to see his assistant’s selection, he nearly chokes.

The drink itself smells rich and chocolately, and curse his one-track mind, the first thing he thinks of is the boy’s dark, inviting eyes. But traced out in syrup over the pale mocha froth is… he could swear it’s a little palm tree. The chocolate has bled out, shifting and blurring from the motion of its travels through the street into the office, and a little of it has managed to transfer to the underside of the lid itself. But it _could_ be. He has to be losing his mind, seeing things when they just aren’t there, like the boy of his dreams, himself. He feels a pang of sudden frustration--he _needs_ to stop this, he has a life to get on with--yet as soon as the thought enters his mind, a wave of sadness sweeps it away and he knows that he won’t be letting go of this obsession anytime soon.

“Newt,” he asks, glancing down at the cup, “what does this look like to you?” 

His assistant looks to him with wide, slightly panicked eyes, most likely thinking that he’s somehow made a terrible mistake by returning to this office with the absolute wrong thing. “It’s, it looks like a café mocha, sir,” he stammers out. “At least that’s what they told me, but if you want something else…”

Graves brushes his concerns away with the wave of a hand, frustrated all over again that he’s no longer communicating himself clearly in his preoccupation with these dreams. Like a crazy man, he thinks. “No, I mean the design. There’s some sort of… artistic chocolate embellishment on here, and I’m wondering what you think it’s meant to be.”

The look Newt gives him then confirms that he is most decidedly no longer acting like himself, but Graves doesn’t care; suddenly it seems desperately important that he hear what a second pair of eyes sees in the swirling foam.

“I- it’s a flower, sir.” Newt frowns at it a little, assessing his first impression more critically before he finally nods his head once, and the matter is decided. “Yes, definitely a flower of some sort, perhaps a lily? If I’m not mistaken, it’s something they put on all their drinks, like a sort of signature logo, although I’m not sure a floral design is the best choice. An animal, perhaps, that would stand out a lot mo--”

“That’s all right, Newt,” Graves interrupts, maybe a little too sharply, and his assistant quickly nods and leaves the room looking slightly grateful to have been dismissed.

Alone with the fragrant cup, Graves sighs and presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes hard enough it brings bright spots to his vision when he opens them again. He isn’t willing to let go of the dreams completely, and he’s certain he doesn’t have a choice either way-- they’ve come to him every night, lately. But he _does_ need to pull it together much better during the day than he has been, if he intends to keep it all from affecting his work and his reputation. He needs to remember that not every single thing he sees has something to do with his all-consuming dream life, and if he’s not careful, he’ll need to see a professional.

For now, he decides he can allow himself one last little indulgence, since he’s alone and clearly under stress. He takes a sip from the cup, tasting the rich sweetness of the coffee, the hint of earthy bitterness that lingers on his tongue. Despite Newt’s nervousness over the choice, it’s exactly what he wanted; someone crafted this drink to perfection. He closes his eyes again and sighs, feeling the languid movement of the tropical waves and the phantom press of butterfly kisses against his skin.

***

“How was last night’s dream?” Queenie whispers conspiratorially when Credence slides past her chair into the break room.

He nearly drops his sandwich, and his face is bright red in an instant.

Laughing, she waves a hand at him. “Never mind. I don’t need the details.”

“Thanks,” he says, genuinely grateful. Just the memory of his reaction, and complete lack of self-control in the wake of the dream, has him flustered.

She’s grinning. “I noticed you talking to that fluffy-haired guy this morning for a good long while. I’d ask if he reminded you of the man of your dreams, but he didn’t really fit the description.”

Credence laughs. “Oh no. No, he just has a very fussy boss who sent him out for something sweet, and he was nervous about getting it right.”

Queenie leans in. “Good, because Teenie thought he was cute.”

Amused, Credence offers to let her serve him, if he comes in again. 

“Any plans this evening? If not, you’re welcome to go to the movies with us, or you can have the place to yourself.” Queenie doesn’t look surprised when he first shakes his head, then nods.

“I… I think I might have an early night.”

“Hmm. I guess I don’t blame you.” Queenie giggles. “Say hello to the mystery man. Did you ask for his name last night?”

Credence sighs. “I wish! When I’m in a dream with him, it’s like I’ve always been there, and there’s no reason to ask. I just _know_ him. I don’t remember it was just a dream until it’s over.”

She squeezes his drooping shoulder gently. “That’s too bad. Maybe one of these nights, you’ll realise, and then you can ask.” Laughing, she adds, “Ask for his phone number, too.”

“Great advice, Queenie!” he tells her.

Later, once Queenie and Tina have left the apartment to go and see a movie, Credence hurriedly has a very light dinner, then gets ready for bed. He’s so excited, he’s worried he won’t be able to sleep at all, but he does, waking up confused that it’s not even midnight, and disappointed that he hasn’t dreamed anything he can remember.

He warms himself some milk and sprinkles on a little cinnamon and nutmeg, then he huddles in his bed, trying not to panic about his first sleep not featuring the mystery man since he’s made his original appearance.

Finally, frustrated but also very tired, he sets aside the empty mug and slides under the sheets--fresh since that morning--and falls into a deep sleep.

He’s running through the streets of New York, searching… searching… he’s not covering much ground, as often happens in dreams, especially as he feels he needs to be somewhere in particular very soon.

There, ahead of him, is a tiny green, vaguely familiar looking, “park” over which a tall office building towers. When he looks up, he sees a figure on a balcony high above the ground, looking through a telescope. Credence knows it’s _him_, has to be, or he wouldn’t have hurried so to get here. He waves, and the man jolts, adjusting the telescope, then abandons it for the sake of climbing over the rail and jumping.

Credence panics for a moment, then realises he’s casually floating down to the square, and he runs to meet him.

Landing as light-footed as a cat, and pulling Credence into his arms, happen all in one perfect, blissful moment.

“I was waiting for you.”

The words leave Credence’s lips the same moment the man says, “I was looking for you.”

They laugh, light-hearted and relieved to be together. Cupping Credence’s face, the man’s warm eyes move over his every single feature adoringly. “You’re so beautiful. Can I just look at you every single moment of my life?”

Credence, instead of answering with words, surges forward for a kiss. It’s clumsy and takes the man by surprise, but their lips are familiar with each other and, with a tilt of a head and a hungry gasp, they fit perfectly. Clutching at each other, Credence is weak in the knees by the time the man’s teeth close tenderly on his lower lip, and a soft whimper escapes him.

“I need you,” the man pants into his open mouth. “Now. Please, let me…”

“Yes! Oh yes.” Credence falls backwards… and lands on a thick rug in front of a fireplace, the man leaning over him and lowering him down with one arm around his waist. Their legs tangle as they roll sideways, tearing at each other’s clothes.

He’s moaning wantonly, and not caring at all, because every sound he makes only seems to charge the man’s ardour further. He’s mostly naked, and being admired as if he’s a work of art spread out on that deep green rug.

“Every inch of you is perfect,” the man murmurs. He’s leaning over him, his well-defined upper body bare and so warm, positively electric, against Credence’s skin. He’s kissing his neck while his hands roam over him--hot and searching and impatient to touch all of him at once.

“No, but you--”

“Shhh.” A playful hushing of his lips by a smiling mouth. “No arguing.”

Credence laughs huskily, and then they’re kissing again… deep, wet, seeking kisses while a warm hand makes its way down his body. He helps to guide it where he needs it most, groaning deeply when it moulds around his aching flesh. “Touch me,” he pleads, legs falling open. “Oh god, please!”

His eyes are held while the hand strokes him firmly. “Do you need me?” he’s asked in urgent, breathy gasps.

***

“Yes!” The boy is underneath Graves before the fireplace, splayed out on the carpet and moaning desperately, _begging_ for his touch. His mouth is so sweet against Graves’, his cock hard and slick in his hand… they’re not flying this time, but it feels like it, the exhilaration is so intense. Somehow, Graves _feels_ it every time his palm slides around the sensitised flesh, as if it were himself he’s touching rather than the gorgeous creature flushed and panting between his legs. 

He swirls the pad of his thumb against the swollen head on the upstroke, and the pleasure is so acute they both cry out in time with one another. It’s been seconds--or an eternity--Graves can’t even tell, but either way, he knows they’re both going to come this time. Together, properly, the way he insists upon. 

“Oh god, baby… oh _fuck_... I need you,” he pants the words in between furtive kisses. “I’m- I’m going to--“

The cock in his hand throbs so hard he feels it against his palm like the swallowing of a throat, and the boy is crying out with his teeth half-sunken into the meat of his shoulder. Graves comes with a pleasure so sharp it’s nearly painful on the first few spurts, pulsing right in time with him, pulling him down into blackness.

He wakes in wet sheets--like he hasn’t done since he was half his age now--shaking as if he’s been sleeping out in the cold. The digital alarm across the room reads 2:17 AM, and he passes a trembling hand over his eyes in the dark, wondering what he’s going to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Credence is still coming even as he wakes up, practically moaning himself awake. His heart is racing as if he’s just sprinted down the entire length of Broadway. For a moment, he feels wildly elated. Then, he all but sobs. He’s alone again, of course. Another dream is over, with only the tendrils of it still grasping at his consciousness: a hot mouth speaking of need, a gentle hand driving him to an orgasm the likes of which he’s never managed to give himself… and both of them finding their release together, perfectly in sync.

For a few minutes, he tries, so hard, to go back to sleep. Maybe if he hurries, he can retrieve the dream? But the harder he tries, the more impossible it becomes, and by the time his old-fashioned fleamarket alarm clock shows the time as being 2:29 AM, he’s wide awake. It’s the last thing he wants to be.

He walks to the window of his tiny room, facing the street outside. They’re only one floor up, and he looks at the way the street shimmers blacker than usual under the light of the lamps. It must have rained. He opens the window and inhales deeply of the refreshed city air. Somewhere in the distance, on a busier street, he hears car tyres on the wet concrete. And then he hears something else--footsteps, quick ones, coming down the street.

Unreasonably, he leans out a little way to see if, against all hope… A jogger with a small dog on a leash passes his window, his life not even intersecting with Credence’s long enough for eye contact. It doesn’t matter, he’s a stranger.

Credence draws back and, with a shiver, closes the window again. He wonders idly whether, if he was to walk up and down the streets of New York City for days on end, he might not find _him_. _If_ he lives in New York and _happens_ to be out and about at the exact right time and in the exact right place. And if he’s even _real_.

“You must be real,” he whispers to himself, hugging his shivering form, grown cold from the night air and the loneliness of being awake after a dream such as that. “Please… _please_ be real.”

***

Standing under an unreasonably hot shower, Graves swears under his breath about the unfairness of it all. To have that breathtaking creature beg for his touch… to have him come apart under it like that, and then not be allowed to hold him and calm him again afterwards… it’s too much. He won’t stand for it!

Once again clean, and far too awake for a man who worked late to try and catch up on some of the work he’d let fall by the wayside lately, he strides out to his office and turns on his laptop.

Within minutes, he has two dozen browser tabs open with all manner of advice on how to induce a lucid dream. Because clearly, his inability to realise he’s dreaming is at fault here, or he wouldn’t neglect to ask at least for a _name_, good Lord!

An hour later, bleary-eyed but determined, he feels better. At least he has a strategy now against letting happiness slip through his hands again and again. He blithely disregards all cautions against even hoping for immediate success and settles back into bed.

He thinks hard about the dream earlier, deciding a suitable ‘dream sign’ in it was his ability to float down from his office balcony and land on his feet. He certainly couldn’t do that while awake. Concentrating hard on the remembered sensation of floating down towards the boy, he mutters to himself, over and over, “Next time I dream, I will remember I’m dreaming.”

Eventually, he falls asleep, only to remember nothing at all in the morning.

He feels far more disappointed than he has any right to be--he _did_ have a mind-blowing orgasm only hours ago, after all. But wanting to have control over the dreams to some extent is a very different thing than stopping them altogether. Suddenly, he’s nervous that his late foray into lucid dreaming might have done something unexpected to halt the dreams entirely, but he tells himself there’s no actual reason to worry until he sees what happens next time he goes to bed.

For now, he needs coffee. After such an odd night, full of intense emotion and multiple instances of waking, he doesn’t feel like waiting all the way until he’s at work to deal with the remnants of his fatigue. And he keeps thinking of that coffee yesterday, the sweet confection that he can’t stop associating with the boy in his dreams, even when there’s literally nothing to link the two things in his mind beyond pure sensory _decadence_. But maybe that’s all he needs, something indulgent and rich, a sweet treat to jolt him out of his fog.

He has no actual idea where it was that Newt even managed to find the particular drink, and he doesn’t remember a logo of any kind on the side of the cup that might give him a clue, which is odd. He could call Newt and ask, but knowing his assistant, he wouldn’t be able to remember where he’d been in the past 5 minutes, let alone which one of the million nearby coffee shops he might have wandered into a day ago. Graves decides to distract himself in the last half hour before work by immersing himself in the idle search, and the first and most obvious way to go about it would be proximity.

There’s a little square about a block away from his office, boasting not 1, but 3, different cafes he might choose from. One of them is right on the edge of the square, a solo shop where people can sit and spend some time in the atmosphere. Another one is simply a sort of kiosk nestled in the lobby of a bookstore, and the third is a Starbucks kitty-corner from the first. He knows it definitely wasn’t _that_ one, and the kiosk looks a little too basic to have made something as lovely as his cafe mocha from the day before, so he chooses the first. 

When he gets inside the shop, hearing the quaint little chime of an old-fashioned bell ringing over his head, he’s greeted by a tall and rather sensible looking girl sporting a chic bobbed haircut. Graves deflates a little and immediately chides himself for it--was he expecting the boy, _again_? He’s beginning to grow annoyed with himself, and with the repeated sting of dashed hopes, however faint they might have been. He knows real life doesn’t work that way, but for the first time in his life, he’s hurt by that fact.

The shop is fairly empty still at this early hour, but cosy enough to tempt anyone to want to linger, if the smell alone weren’t enough. He still has no idea if this is the place, but all he can really do is ask. The girl smiles benignly as he steps up to the counter, frowning slightly at the menu board behind her head.

“I had something yesterday,” he begins, “a cafe mocha with a flower on top. Is this the place that does those, or am I entirely off the mark?”

He sees her puzzled look melt into something more apologetic and he deflates a little further. There’s no boy here, and no cafe mocha, either. He almost wants to simply turn around and leave without hearing her _‘I’m so sorries.’_

“We… don’t really have a cafe mocha on the menu here,” she tells him needlessly, as he can see now on the board that it’s definitely not included. “We _do_ have quite a few other drinks that involve chocolate though, like our mochaccino, although… we don’t put _flowers_ on any of them.”

Graves knows he’s giving her a _look_ now, which isn’t fair, even while he can’t help himself. Then again, neither can _she_ help it if he’s becoming exactly what he feared: a crazy man, charging around town on an imaginary mission and making absolutely no sense. “Of course,” he says, realising there’s just no point in pursuing it any further. A coffee is a coffee. “I’ll just get the mochaccino, then.” 

***

Credence is all but falling out of the subway train. After being awake for hours, feeling alternately restless and hopeful, then sad and foolish, he finally went back to sleep in the early morning hours. And even though his shift today doesn’t start until later, he actually did oversleep this time. He runs all the way to the coffee shop, where he nearly collides with a customer in the doorway. “Sorry!” he pants.

“No problem.” A large hand just manages to keep a takeaway cup upright, and the look the broad, blond man gives him says quite clearly it would have been a problem, had his coffee been spilled.

Tina is standing behind the counter, giving him a look with one raised eyebrow. “You’re late,” she points out, as if he didn’t know.

“I’m sorry.” Credence struggles out of his jacket as he moves around the counter. “I slept through my alarm.”

“You ought to get rid of that old thing,” Tina says. “It probably doesn’t work right.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and frowns at him. “Hey, are you okay? You look like you haven’t slept at all.”

Jacob, the owner of the shop, comes out of the kitchen, all smiles. “There you are. Everything all right, Credence?”

“I’m so sorry, Jacob. I’ll make up the time tonight.”

Jacob glances at the wall clock and shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, kid. It happens. You sick or something, though? You look pale.”

“I was wondering too.” Tina squeezes his arm awkwardly. “Sorry I was kind of snappy.”

Credence gives them both a tired smile. “I’m okay, I just had a bad sleep. Well, not right away. I woke up at some point and couldn’t go back to sleep, and then in the end I couldn’t wake up.” He stops, even more tired after the lengthy explanation.

Jacob looks like he can tell. “Listen, if you find any time today that you’re not up to working, you go home, okay?”

Grateful for his understanding boss, Credence reassures him he will.

He’s determined to work his full shift but, as bad as he feels about his dreams interfering with his work, he makes it to about 2 in the afternoon before he has to admit defeat. He’s nearly dropped several cups that day, and the last one sloshed over the side on the way to the counter.

Jacob, after Queenie’s informed on Credence, gives him firm instructions to go home and rest.

“I’d say go and have a nap, but your dream lover might exhaust you even more,” Queenie jokes as she’s nudging him towards the door.

Credence blushes. He opens his mouth to protest, but she’s grinning.

“Don’t even deny those dreams have something to do with this. Go home and have a real rest. Curl up somewhere and read.” She gives him a wink.

Credence thinks she probably has a point.

Once he’s home, he figures if he’s just going to sit around and read, he might as well do it in the building’s communal laundry, while doing a load of bedlinen and pyjamas; he blushes at the reminder of his nocturnal adventures as he stuffs it all into the far right one of the large washers and settles in with one of Queenie’s fashion magazines.

While the mass of colourful cotton churns gently in the machine across the room from him, he opens up the magazine and a little pocket ballpoint pen falls out. It was wedged into a double page featuring a test titled ‘Who’s your perfect mate?’

Credence, assuming Queenie planned to do the test, even though her answer is obviously ‘Jacob’, chuckles despite himself. He knows the right answer for himself, too, but he starts ticking boxes; it’s a way to pass the time.

By early evening, when he leaves to head back upstairs, he’s so drowsy from all the reading and the rhythmic white noise of the washer and dryer, he forgets the magazine where he last put it down.

***

Not only was Graves’ day long and numbingly dull, and not only was he nagged again and again with the worry that his special dreams might fail to return, but he also managed to spill the fancy coffee on his white dress shirt--after all he’d gone through making a fool of himself to get the coffee in the first place. Now, to top it all off, despite the relief of finally being home, it seems his in-suite washing machine just isn’t going to turn on. He’s tried everything he can think of, even pulling it away from the wall to examine its hidden workings (as if he’d know what to do, anyhow). 

His building is one of those New York curiosities: mostly fairly high-end suites like his penthouse as the property continually upgrades, and a handful of rent controlled units hosting those last few hangers-on that keep the place from becoming entirely upscale. So far, the arrangement has worked well for him-- it kept the price of his apartment quite a bit lower than a place like his would normally go for, and eventually the entire building will catch up to the penthouse’s quality and its value will rise much higher. 

All this being the case, he reminds himself that there _is_ a laundry of some sort down in the bowels of the building, someplace shadowy and foreign that he can’t recall ever having visited before. He has no idea how much money such a service costs, but he does know that he will have to do it all himself, and at the end of a day like the one he’s had, why not? Hopefully the little adventure will tire him out enough that he can get back to his next dream, and he won’t have to throw away a $300 shirt.

Armed with his small basket of clothing and his detergent, he finds the laundry room downstairs after a few wrong turns and is surprised to discover it’s actually more spacious and clean than he’d been imagining. No one is there, to his relief, and almost all of the machines are available. He chooses one near the corner and steps to it, pulling out a credit card as he sets the basket down on top of the dryer beside it. And then he stops, staring at the odd little vending machine receptacle waiting empty at the edge of the machine. There’s a sticker affixed to it, explaining that each load costs $2.50. In quarters. Like something out of the 1970s. 

Graves sighs heavily and just sits down in the nearest chair. There’s no point in going all the way out in search of a pirate’s booty worth of quarters, and at this point he’s so irritated, he won’t do it even on principle. The thought that people--living in the same building as himself, even--have to go around hoarding coins just to wash their clothes next to a bunch of stranger’s smelly linens… it makes him shake his head in wonder. Who _are_ these people, living out their crowded lives in the rooms literally beneath him every day?

There’s a glossy fashion magazine laid open and forgotten on the small table next to the chair, and he picks it up, more curious now than ever about these people he’s barely ever spared a thought for before now. The pages are bookmarked by a pen tucked into the spine, so he flips it to the spot only to find a completed questionnaire. Some girl, no doubt, has filled in the quiz while hoping and dreaming over its promises as the laundry machines softly churn away. _Who’s Your Perfect Mate?_ the title asks, and he smirks to himself when he sees the anticipated result has been proudly circled: _Tall, Dark and Mysterious_. 

'Maybe it’s me,' he thinks whimsically, before picking up his basket of laundry and heading back out the door. The stain will set, he knows, and the shirt will need to be thrown away, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Queenie made an especially comforting stew that evening, and both she and Tina seemed rather worried about Credence. By the time he finally drops into bed, he feels guilty and extremely tired, doubting he’ll even have the energy to dream. But he’s wrong.

It’s snowing the kind of huge, soft, slow flakes that only happen in fairy tales. It might as well be a fairy tale, because he’s huddled under thick blankets in the arms of his Prince Charming, inside a sleigh pulled by two unicorns, of all things. They’re being drawn through a moonlit woodland sloping gently down the side of a mountain.

Credence feels so warm and comfortable, it seems as if even the snow flakes touching his face have already melted before contact is made. “Where are we going?” he asks, not minding at all what the answer may be.

“I have no idea,” is whispered into his ear, and he giggles. “Somewhere we’ll be alone, I hope.”

“Mmm.” He snuggles even closer as they glide along silently. He doesn’t point out that they’re already alone--not counting their mystical companions.

At the edge of the woods is a cabin, lit from within with a soft golden glow and from without by lanterns on either side of the front door. 

“Beautiful,” whispers Credence. Warm fingers through his hair and a kiss on the crown of his head make him smile.

Then they’re inside, in front of the open hearth, flames blazing and shooting sparks up into the chimney. Credence is stretched out on a low sofa, feet towards the fire; he smiles at the colourful socks he’s wearing and wriggles his toes.

The scents of a familiar spicy cologne and the fragrant steam of a cup of hot chocolate vie for his attention then, and he turns his head to see the man smiling at him. He takes the cup and, while he sniffs at it and sighs contentedly, his feet are lifted off the sofa and placed in the other’s lap where he sits facing him.

“You look so cosy,” the man says, his eyes tenderly moving all over Credence while he massages his feet through the fluffy socks.

Credence sighs with contentment, sipping the delicious drink as he holds the soft brown eyes over the rim of the cup. He jolts a little when one sock is tugged off, unable to suppress his moan at the sensual touch of the hand tracing the sole of his slowly bared foot.

“I think you like this,” the man says, his gaze darkening when Credence nods and bites his lip. The sock is discarded and the hand slides up to his ankle, wrapping around it while the other hand closes over his toes and kneads them lovingly.

“Oh!” Credence’s eyes flutter closed. He can’t believe the way the light massage of his foot affects the rest of him. His other foot, lying currently untouched in the man’s lap, arches in sympathy, the toes curling down. Against the hard curve of the other’s arousal.

That, and a deep groan, makes him open his eyes wide, and he stares at the way the handsome face is transformed by pleasure. He does it again, and the hand around his ankle squeezes. Smiling at the man’s awed expression, he draws back his foot and awkwardly pulls off his own sock; the cup has conveniently vanished.

“Yes,” the man murmurs, adjusting the way he sits and pulling the second bare foot back into his lap, pressing it against the front of his trousers. “God, you’re something else, baby,” he praises when a gentle kneading begins. He returns to applying his own caresses, once again using both hands to play and squeeze and stroke the other foot until Credence whimpers, begging him to let go of it.

As soon as he does, it joins the other foot in his lap, toes tracing along his inner thigh, then nudging up underneath his trapped cock while the sole of his right foot glides over the top.

The man sits back, elbows on the armrest behind him, and stares at Credence in awe, panting hard. “You’re going to make me come like this,” he warns.

Credence nods and smiles, keeping it up. That seems to be all it takes. Within moments, the man is gasping, clutching his upper foot and pressing it down hard. The groan and the gentle throbbing against his sole are simultaneous with the liquid warmth wetting the wool under his skin. He groans in sympathy.

The man has barely recovered when he surges forward, parting Credence’s legs to make room and wincing as he leans over him. His hands, shaking as they are, make quick work of the trouser closure, and Credence can only hang on to the cushions around him when his cock is pulled into the hot mouth the moment it emerges.

“Unghhh!” He arches into the wetness that does nothing to cool the red-hot flush of the tip, sucking with a furious rhythm that has him seeing stars in no time. “So good…” he moans, his whole body trembling.

“Mmm,” the man agrees, sucking noisily, drawing back and watching Credence’s face. “You taste so damn good,” he growls, while he spreads the sticky-slick mix of seed and saliva over the cock in his hand, before getting right back to making it even stickier and slicker.

When Credence comes down his throat, it’s with enough force to make him cry out.

Which wakes him up. “No,” he pants, shivering with the sudden loss of the wet heat around him and the blazing fire nearby. He is, once again, soaked, his flaccid cock still twitching. Worst of all though, he’s alone. Again.

***

"God _damn_ it!" 

Graves is once again lying spent in soaked sheets, which is just lovely now that his washer is broken. He can hardly care about that right now, though, with the lingering taste of the boy still clinging and so, _so_ frustratingly real. He punches the mattress next to himself in anguish and then does it again, just because the first one felt surprisingly good. 

He also feels angry with himself, for failing to manage any lucid dreaming, despite the warnings from all his research that told him he was unlikely to be successful right away. Graves holds himself to a higher expectation than that, but then again, if he were so great at controlling things, he wouldn't be having these dreams in the first place. 

Lying there in the dark, it hits him full-force: these are dreams, just an invention of his own mind, and dreams are the closest thing he will ever have to holding, to _loving_ that perfect boy. He remembers the magazine from earlier--_Tall, Dark and Mysterious_\--thinking to himself 'it doesn't get more mysterious than fiction'. A bark of laughter escapes him, and as soon as it does, he's horrified to find his laughter dissolving into hiccuping tears, out of his control just like everything else. 

He _can't_ be this lonely, can he? Driven nearly to madness with it? But it's not just loneliness, it's the _boy_ himself, the need for him and only him. There's no cure for an emptiness that no one else can fill, especially not if the person who belongs in that space isn't even real. Graves feels almost panicky, claustrophobic with the sense of there being nothing he can really do to soothe the hurt, and somewhere in the back of his mind he understands this is what they mean when they talk about the pain of _loss_. 

He's sure he's being punished somehow: the man who has everything, tormented each night by having the only thing that matters torn away again and again. Prometheus chained to the mountain, literally gutted for daring to share his gifts. 

Graves sits up in bed, wiping at his eyes. Is that it? Is he meant to share something of himself, his wealth, in order to end this desperate cycle? A sort of Prometheus in reverse, as it were? He lays back down again, thinking it over and letting the fatigue of unexpected tears draw him down into a dreamless sleep. 

***

Credence goes to work earlier the next morning, even before Tina is up; Queenie always has the early shift, when it’s mostly just Jacob there.

He’s not going in early because he’s especially awake or energetic, but he feels bad about having skipped the end of his shift the previous day and might actually go crazy if he keeps trying to force himself back to sleep. To dream.

He didn’t succeed for the rest of the night, assuming he was simply too exhausted from his almost violently intense orgasm and accumulated tiredness. He’s still so tired, he actually presses the button for the elevator, despite only being one floor up, but then he sees it’s all the way up at the top floor of the building and, with a sigh, he walks down and out the front door, dragging his feet. He has a strange nagging feeling he should turn around and go back, but after running through a mental list of things he might have forgotten to do, and coming up with nothing, he continues on.

When he gets to the square in front of the coffee shop, he pauses, with a vague memory trying to resurface. It’s just the same old square, with the same buildings all around it--tall office buildings and shops, nothing special, and yet he suddenly thinks there’s more to it. He looks up and around himself, but one building is much like another to him, and he’s never taken much notice of the differences before. Someone bumps into him and he jolts, apologises, and turns to walk into the coffee shop.

***

When Graves gets to the ground floor, he steps out of the elevator and knocks on the building manager’s door, hoping he’s not too early.

“What is it?” comes the gruff question from out of an unshaven face barely visible over the door chain.

“Good morning, Mr Hubbard,” says Graves, wishing it was. “I’d like to talk to you about the laundry room.”

“Somethin’ wrong with it?” the man asks. He stares at Graves for a moment, then checks, “Hey, you’re the guy up in the penthouse. Graves, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You use the communal laundry?” Hubbard looks flabbergasted.

Graves isn’t surprised. “Well… I tried to, last night, but I only had… never mind that.” He looks around, wishing the man would just let him in. “I’d like to do something for everyone in the building, and I thought a complete overhaul of the… décor down there, at my expense, might be a nice idea. Maybe a few things could be added, too.”

“At your expense, huh?” Hubbard chuckles. “Wow, you’re an odd one. But come in, let’s talk.”

A little over an hour later, by the time Graves is at work, he’s arranged for a costly renovation of the apartment complex’s laundry. He’s also dropped a total of about $300 into various hats and trembling hands on the way to work, after letting himself be dropped off a couple of blocks early by a generously tipped taxi driver. After that, he told the receptionist downstairs to arrange for coffee and pastries to be delivered to his entire department around mid-morning.

Almost as an afterthought, he calls a plumber and arranges to get his own personal washing machine fixed.

When Newt comes in bearing a plate with a sticky looking Danish in his hands, beaming broadly to, presumably, offer it to Graves, he stops in his tracks and watches his boss seemingly attempt to walk through a wall. “Sir?” he croaks. 

Graves turns to him, frowning, as if pushing against his wall, and giving it a swift kick as well, is a normal part of his morning routine. “What is it, Newt?”

“Uh… I just came to bring you something, too. Thanks for the treats, by the way, everyone is loving them.”

Graves looks at the sticky confection and shakes his head. Baked goods have decidedly found their match in his dream boy, and there’s no point trying to pretend otherwise anymore. “No, thanks. It’s all yours.”

“Right. Okay. Are you… are you feeling all right, Mr Graves?”

Graves decides there’s no reason to worry his already nervous enough P.A. “I’m fine, Newt.” It’s only once Newt has left the room that he realises his ‘reality check’ ensuring the wall was a real wall, not a dream wall, must have looked quite peculiar. Perhaps he needs to find more subtle ways to establish whether he’s awake or dreaming; he’s certainly not yet ready to give up on attempting to induce a lucid dream.

***

When Tina gets to the coffee shop a few hours after Credence, he sees her and Queenie share a sort of _look_, and he knows it’s about him. Which is fine, he certainly didn’t expect that they _wouldn’t_ talk about him with each other, but he is a little embarrassed to think that he’s causing them concern over something like _dreams_. He was far worse when he first moved in with them, after all, having just come out of the kind of home he’d grown up in and having nightmares nearly every night. But the fact that this is something else altogether, rather than his regular bad dreams, almost seems to have them even more worried, if that look they’d just shared was anything to go by. Already, Credence assumes they must be thinking he’s losing himself into some kind of fantasy life as a coping mechanism, and the worst part is that he doesn’t know for himself that isn’t what’s actually happening. It’s just that it all feels so _real_.

“So,” Tina says as she stashes her coat in the nook next to the staff room door, “there was a notice in the front lobby of our building by the mail boxes today as I was leaving. Apparently, the whole laundry room is getting updated.” 

Queenie looks up from what she’s doing with an expression even more concerned than the one she’d just not-so-secretly shared with her sister. “Oh, Hubbard’s not gonna raise anybody’s rent to pay for it, is he? That would be just awful!”

“No, that’s the really crazy thing,” Tina tells them. “Apparently it’s some kind of charitable initiative from another resident in the building. One of the new well-off people upstairs, I guess.” 

Credence finds himself grinning for the first time in a long while, suddenly touched by the idea of someone taking it upon themselves to do a thing like that. “Wow, that’s really great, actually. Like new machines and everything?” 

“I guess so,” Tina shrugs. Then that _look_ returns, in a quick glance in Queenie’s direction. They’re really not very subtle, Credence thinks. 

“So Teenie and I were thinking we should all hang out this evening and just watch a movie over pizza,” Queenie announces, with a touch of forced cheer. “Just something light and fun, you know?” 

Thinking it over for a second, Credence figures ‘why not?’ It’s not as if he can just run off to bed earlier and earlier each night as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Distracting himself with a movie might be fun, even if it does end up with the two of them fussing over him. Or worse, trying to draw him into an awkward heart-to-heart.

***

Graves makes sure to remember every single reality check throughout the day. He looks into, and pokes at, mirrors. He tries to fly--when he can be sure no one will come in while doing _that_. He checks his wall clock to see whether it’s turning into a Dali artwork or going backwards. And he examines his hands frequently enough for odd changes, like elongated fingers for instance, that it could be called obsessive.

The whole thing is an obsession, he’s well aware. And, with the distinct possibility the boy does not exist--though he is _certain_, right down in the deepest depths of his soul, that he _does_\--he figures he should talk to his therapist about it.

By late afternoon, he finds himself in her office. He’s sitting on the couch in the half-dark room while eyeing the tropical fish swimming back and forth in the large aquarium across from him.

“How have you been, Percival?” Dr McKinney asks.

He snorts. “What’s the professional term for ‘going around the bend’?”

One thinly painted brow rises above a pair of round gold glasses. “That sounds quite extreme. I’m more used to you downplaying anything that troubles you.”

He can’t argue with that. “The only part of this issue that’s troubling to me is that I can’t transfer it into the waking world.”

Dr McKinney shifts and leans forward, suddenly fascinated. “You’re having unusual dreams?”

“No, doctor, I’m having wonderful dreams. Every. Single. Night.”

She smiles. “I should think that would please you.”

“Oh, it does.” Graves rests one forearm behind his head on the cushion. “It pleases me so much, I’m considering leaving the workforce in order to take up dreaming full-time.”

At this, McKinney laughs. “Percival, you love your job more than anything.” When he merely huffs in response, she checks, “Don’t you?”

“I used to. Now it’s just an unnecessary distraction from--” He meets her eyes. “Would you ever have considered me a romantic?”

There’s no hesitation before the expected shake of the head. 

“Neither would I.”

“Just what kinds of dreams are these?” McKinney settles back to listen.

Graves taps his fingers against his sternum as he recounts, in the least detailed way possible--because those details are private--the pattern of his nightly dreams.

When he’s done, McKinney pushes up her glasses and takes a deep breath. “Wow.”

Graves snickers. “That’s quite an understatement, but yes.”

“You’re determined to find out if he exists.” The doctor doesn’t bother pretending it’s a question.

“I have to,” Graves says at once. “I _need_ to.”

“There’s little point in me telling you that, more likely than not, your subconscious has conjured up your perfect match to alleviate your loneliness, is there, Percival?”

Not for the first time, he wonders why he pays her so handsomely. “None whatsoever. I’ve told myself that already, and I refuse to settle for happiness only in my dreams.”

“You need this boy to be happy?” She zooms in on the crux of the matter.

He looks at her. “I do and, what’s more, I need to make _him_ happy.”

With a smile, she asks, “Why do you think that is, Percival?”

Graves doesn’t think it should take a psychiatrist to work that out, and he wonders why he bothered coming here today, though in a way, he probably needed this session to admit it to himself. “Because I love him.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, inb4invert here to say we both hope everyone is managing to stay safe and healthy through this crisis. ♥️ 
> 
> I'd also like to remind you all that we're very active on Twitter and we often post bonus visual content for our fics that you might enjoy, as well as just general squealing over everything Gradence. So if you get bored or lonely during quarantine, by all means come and say hi! 
> 
> [This chapter's teaser vid!](https://twitter.com/inb4invert/status/1240905409247969281?s=19)

Queenie and Tina had picked Total Recall for their proposed movie night, a mind-bending early 90s sci-fi film starring Arnold Schwarzenegger; it was something none of them had seen before, and it looked like a lot of fun. Most likely, the girls had expected it would take his mind off of his all-encompassing dreams, but neither of them had seemed to consider the fact that the plot revolved around a man trying desperately to discern what’s real and what’s all in his mind. 

There had been a few moments when he’d caught them glancing carefully his way during certain scenes, and if Credence didn’t know any better, he might have suspected them of choosing the film intentionally after all. Once it had finished, their minds swimming with bizarre images and their bellies just as full of pizza, he’d found he just didn’t have it in himself to sit through the talk he’d known they were both building up to.

“I know you guys are worried about me,” he’d said, bringing it up just to get past it before they could. “But I’m not having nightmares for the first time in a long while, and I’m happy enough with that fact alone.” 

Queenie had smiled softly and patted his knee in understanding, while Tina had seemed ready to protest--before Queenie’s smile grew a little harder as it was directed her way.

“Maybe it _is_ just delayed relief after… after _everything_,” he’d gone on, mostly to keep himself sounding reasonable to their ears, “but I’m not going crazy or anything distressing, and it will probably pass anyway.” 

With that, he’d made his excuses and his eager way to bed, knowing that he wasn’t nearly as confident of his own words as the sisters had seemed to be when he left them. In fact, he’d been almost certain that he _was_ going crazy: driven to literal tears over a man he didn’t even know for sure existed. 

What was worse was the fact that some part of him insisted that he _did_ know, that deep down, he felt the man in his dreams was more real than anything he’d ever encountered in his waking life. And more than that… it wasn’t madness he was caught up in. It was love. He might be able to hide that fact from his friends, but he couldn’t hide it from himself. Credence had slipped under the covers that night determined not to hide it from the man in his dreams, either. 

He’s in an airport, in some future world scenario filled with strange technology and flashing lights, and Credence thinks to himself, vaguely: _this is because I watched that film_. 

He hardly even knows what that means as soon as he thinks it, and he doesn’t really have time to ponder because there’s too much going on in here. There’s a man a few feet away in the crowded space, being scanned through some type of TSA checkpoint, only there’s a commotion brewing around him. His face glitches as he turns, shifting once, twice-- his digital mask slips away and it’s _him_. 

Credence is frozen in place: the whole room, in fact, is still for a second or two as he thinks (or did he speak the words out loud?) ‘This might be my fault.’ 

Suddenly, the man has smoothly broken free of the agents who try to hold him, brushing them off like they were no more than paper dolls. Credence’s knees feel trembling and weak at the look in his eyes, the determination and _want_ burning there as he crosses the room towards him. It’s only moments before he’s swept up into the folds of the man’s long coat and gently pressed into an alcove in the wall. The chaos carries on outside their little bubble as if they were invisible now. 

“What’s your fault, love?” the man asks him, running his thumb over Credence’s bottom lip with the softest, most _loving_ look he’s ever given him. Seeing it, Credence can barely remember what he’d even been saying in the first place, though he struggles to catch it again, if only to answer the question that’s been so softly asked of him. 

“Um… this _place_. Setting,” he finally manages. “I watched a strange movie before bed.” 

The man gives him a puzzled little frown, still smiling, before his eyes widen and light up with a spark of understanding that’s nearly visible. He grips Credence by the upper arms and looks into his face, amazed and searching.. and somehow far more _present_. “Oh god,” he whispers. “Yes! Because this is a _dream_!”

“I--” Credence thinks about what he’s said and realises it’s absolutely true. It feels as though he’s known it, all along, every time. And there have been other times, so many, each one suddenly clear as day. There’s something else he knows: the airport agents are suddenly taking an interest again, walking towards them now, and he’s going to be jolted awake any moment. He doesn’t understand how he knows this, or why it will happen, but he does. “Yes, yes it’s a dream!” he rushes out, not wanting to take his eyes off the man’s face to cast even one anxious glance towards the agents who are so near now. 

It’s almost all too much, then, having the full scope of all their meetings fresh in his mind for once while the man is standing right before him. Not wanting the dream to be dashed away again even though he can see it’s about to happen. “It’s a dream and I love you,” he says, because he doesn’t know if he will have this chance again. “Please find me.” 

The agents are there now, pulling the man away from him in their renewed sense of authority, and Credence is crying, feeling wakefulness already tugging as well. 

“I will,” his dream-man vows, eyes blazing as he’s pulled away. “I love you, please tell me who you are!” 

Credence wakes in the dark of his room, shouting his own name.

***

Graves sits bolt upright so quickly, he makes himself dizzy. He doesn’t give a damn. “Credence,” he murmurs. Then, with a slow smile of sheer joy, he repeats, “Credence...”

He leaps out of bed, more eager for wakefulness and to get on with his day than he’s been in a long time. Because his wonderful boy, _who loves him_, is real, just as he’d known all along, and he has a name and is out there somewhere, wanting Graves to find him. And he _will_ find him, or his name isn’t Percival Graves!

By the time he strides into the office, he’s come up with a plan--several, in fact, because he’s leaving nothing to chance. Credence (he smiles at the very innocence of the name) needs him and is waiting.

“Newt, cancel my morning appointments. Then find me the best sketch artist you can, and I don’t care if you have to kidnap one from the NYPD.”

Newt, who’s dropped his breakfast muffin when his boss positively bolted out of the elevator, gapes at him. “A… a sketch artist, sir?” His eyes widen. “Has a crime been committed?”

Graves smiles. “Practically the opposite, Newt!” He throws his coat on the stand and opens the door to his own office. Then he turns around again. “Once you’ve found one and arranged to bring them here, get me another one of those mochaccinos from a couple of days ago, will you?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“Where did you get that, by the way?”

Newt ponders for a moment. “Oh, that came from just across that square a block away, from a place called Kowalski’s, I think?”

Graves frowns. Well, that’s where he went too, he’s sure that was the name.

Once he’s at his desk, Graves starts his own search and, by the time Newt places his drink in front of him, he’s assembled a promising list of reputable private detectives. 

“The artist will be here in half an hour, sir. And I tried to get the same kind of coffee. A lovely dark-haired girl made it this time.” Newt grins somewhat foolishly. “Her eyes reminded me of--”

“Thank you, Newt.” Graves absently takes a sip. It appears to be the kind of coffee his P.A. brought back the other day, but there’s something missing. It’s nowhere near as perfect as it was last time. He flips the lid open and an abstract geometrical shape is featured on the foam. “Hmm.” He glances at Newt. “Show the artist in right away as soon as he turns up.”

When he’s alone again, he makes a series of phone calls and lines up three private detectives to come by his office later that day.

The artist is quite good, but it takes nearly an hour before Graves is even halfway satisfied with the sketch. Credence’s lips weren’t nearly sensuous enough, his eyes not nearly vulnerable enough, his cheekbones not high enough, and the sweeping curves of his brows took some time to get right as well.

“It’s a shame you don’t have at least an out-of-date photo. That always helps with missing persons,” the artist says helpfully.

Graves agrees whole-heartedly that it is a shame. “There’s been no opportunity to take a photo,” he says, and it’s the truth. He gives the sketch in his hands a long, assessing look. “This is quite good. Thank you.”

“A very striking face, if I may say so.” Packing up his sketchbook and pens, the artist comments on the elusive subject of his work.

Graves nods absently, admiring it as though it was the finest work of art ever created. To him, it is. “He’s absolutely perfect.”

After telling the first private detective that the person he’s to look for is someone Graves only sees in his dreams, he approaches the matter from a more down-to-Earth angle with the other two. The look of amused pity had him considering dismissing the first man without availing himself of his services; alas, he’s the one with the most exalted reputation for finding missing people.

In the end, a team of three detectives is on the case, all of them agreeing on the following: a sketch, a first name, an approximate age and geographical boundary, and an extremely… besotted description, are not much to go on.

“That’s all I can give you for now, but I’m hopeful there’ll be more.” It’s what Graves tells them all, and he hopes very much that he’s right. Had he not woken up when he did, he might have got a surname as well, because he’s convinced Credence called out more.

***

All day at work, Credence is just as distracted by thoughts of his dreams as usual, only this time he feels as if he’s walking on air. If he hadn’t checked already multiple times by pinching himself, he might even believe he was dreaming right now. He’s never been so happy. The man of his dreams loves him back, and he’s got to be real, there’s no other explanation. Now all he has to do is wait until the man actually finds him and, if they’re lucky, maybe he can stay aware of things long enough during the next dream to really share some information. 

Credence wishes he knew the man’s name, too, but what has passed between them already is more than he ever imagined possible. He’s never even heard of something like this happening between two strangers; it might be the first time it’s ever really occurred, for all he knows.

“You’re in an awfully good mood,” Queenie quietly observes next to him at the counter as he’s humming to himself while he refills the paper cups into their dispensers. “Your mystery dream man, again?” 

He glances at her and sees her smile is touched with that same bit of worry he’s been seeing in both of the girls more and more lately. He’d feel guilty for it, if he weren’t so happy, and also if he weren’t so sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Not anymore, there isn’t. Credence bites his lip and just nods in response to her question. 

“Thank you for the movie night,” he says after a moment. “And for the specific movie, too, it… helped me.” 

Queenie frowns at him, clearly not sure what to make of that last statement. “It did? And here I was thinkin’ maybe we went and made the worst possible choice. You looked nearly pale a couple of times last night, while we were watching it.” 

Setting down what he’s doing, Credence fully turns to her and grins. “That’s just the thing! I thought it would trouble me a little bit, too, when I went to bed. But something about the film stuck in my mind and made me have a sort of lucid dream last night. I used to have them sometimes when I was living at home… you know, when I would have nightmares all the time that I wanted to find my way out of.” 

Now Queenie looks doubly confused. “And that makes you happy?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes, “because this time it was _so_ good. I… I saw him again and… I knew it was a dream for the first time, and we _talked_.”

“You talked.” Queenie’s voice falls a little flat, and it comes out like a statement rather than a question. Credence can tell she’s more worried now than ever, and he rushes to convince her. 

“I know it sounds crazy, and I know you guys are worried about me and I love you both for it.” 

Queenie smiles softly at him, hearing that, at least. 

“But the thing is, _he_ knew what I was talking about too, when I said that we were in a dream. He… he wanted to know my name, he was desperate to, actually.” 

Credence wishes she didn’t look so concerned, but a part of her seems a little amazed, if he’s not reading the wide-eyed look on her face all wrong. More than anything, he wants her to be his ally in this, to believe along with him. Why _shouldn’t_ something wonderful and romantic happen to him? 

“Credence… dreams can do all kinds of funny things,” she says cautiously, “and no one would blame you for wanting… a sort of adventure…” 

His shoulders drop a little, but he’s beyond even contemplating that point of view anymore. “I know everything you’re suggesting, and I know it’s the reasonable thing to think. But this isn’t about what’s _logical_ anymore, not for me. It was like he _woke up_ inside the dream with me, and I’ve--” he stops, struggling for the words and feeling like he’s somehow being timed before the chance to be understood passes completely. “I’ve never felt so sure of something, or someone, in my life like this,” he finishes. “We know each other, and we know that the other is real and this just isn’t something I’m alone in, you know?” 

Queenie bites her lip and really thinks over what he’s said, and he loves her even more just for doing that much. It’s more than anything he could have expected in his previous home life. After a moment, she nods and starts to smile. ‘I mean, weirder things have happened, right?” she asks, and he bolts forward and simply hugs her for a long moment, something he rarely ever does. 

She looks a little flustered when he lets her go--blushing and surprised--so he turns back to his work to give her a moment to collect herself. He’s a little embarrassed himself, for pouring his heart out like that; it’s another unusual thing for him, even more than the hugging is. 

After a moment, Queenie says quietly beside him, affecting a conversational tone: “Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a ghost in the subway?” 

He can’t help it--Credence begins to laugh, even while he appreciates that she’s _trying_.

***

Graves knows he’s being unreasonable, but it does irk him when, by the time he climbs into bed that night, he’s heard nothing back yet from any of the detectives he’s put on the case. Still, he goes to bed feeling hopeful that another lucid dream will give him the additional information that’s needed to find Credence, and to find him fast.

He’s striding down a street half-torn up as though some monster ripped right through the concrete. Nothing looks quite right--the buildings, the cars, the signage… all are clearly of the 1920s. Even his clothes, flamboyant as they are.

It’s dark when he turns into an alleyway. He’s there to meet someone, and he knows exactly who.

The boy is standing hunched over, shivering in a too short jacket. When Graves gets close, he jumps, then instantly relaxes.

“Credence!” Graves says, drawing him into his arms as if they’ve done this a hundred times before in this time and place.

“I knew you’d come for me.” Credence sags against him with palpable relief, his shivers running through him like an electric current. Graves frowns, deeply disconcerted to see how desperate, and how troubled, his boy is. It’s clear he’s been through the wars, and his clothes aren’t anywhere near sufficient for the cold, so he pulls him into his embrace a little tighter and whispers words that instantly envelop them both in comforting warmth. He’s determined as ever to take Credence away, knowing that tonight is _the night_, and still in the back of his mind, something tugs at him as though he’s forgetting a crucial matter.

“Of course I came for you, my boy,” he whispers gruffly. “We need to leave, immediately. I’m finally getting you out of here.” He feels, more than hears, the sob of relief as it leaves the boy where his face is pressed against the lapels of his elegant coat. “I’m so sorry it’s taken so long, and come to this, for us to have our chance.” 

Graves lifts the boy’s tear-stained face gently in his hands, ducking his head to meet his eyes before capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. Credence moans, legs trembling as he clings to the back of Graves’ arms and clumsily does his best to receive him. They’ve never gone this far--Graves has never _dared_\--but the whole world be damned, he thinks. This is their _right_, and he hasn’t got the resolve to deny the pleading look in Credence’s eyes any longer, not now. 

Moments later, they’re on a plush sofa, in a nearly dark room, with Credence gasping in surprise at the suddenness and intensity of the impact. Their legs are tangled up awkwardly, as if they’ve fallen from a great height and just conveniently landed somewhere comfortable. With the boy on top of Graves and wriggling maddeningly.

“How did we get here?”

Graves says, without a second thought, “Magic, sweetheart.” It’s not said with levity or sarcasm. He means it.

“Oh…” The helpless wonder parting the pink lips, combined with the way Credence’s eyes dart back and forth across Graves’ face, a faint blush spreading slowly, makes him even more irresistible.

Graves has a feeling he’s resisted this sweet creature long enough.The wriggling stops when he takes the boy’s right hand and holds it between them to press a kiss into the palm. Red welts criss-cross the soft skin, just as he’s expected; he bites back his fury and promises softly, “This will never happen again.” Then he kisses the wounds until the boy whimpers. Not with pain, if the hardness against his own rising need is anything to go by.

“Please,” Credence whispers. “May I have another kiss?”

“Only a kiss?” A hesitant nod, halted by Graves’ hand on the back of his head, is followed by a moan when Graves whispers against the soft lips, “Are you sure? Because I’m willing to give you anything you want, my boy.”

“A-any… thing?” Credence’s lips touch his with the disbelieving murmur.

“Mmm. Anything at all.” Graves brushes his lips against the boy’s, only for a moment. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.” For good measure, he presses his hips up against the boy’s groin, making both of them moan.

“Oh god, I--” Credence licks his lips, his eyes at half-mast. “This is sinful, but… please, do that again, sir.”

Graves doesn’t need to be asked twice. With a firm hand on the seam of the boy’s trousers where they stretch over his tempting bottom, he pulls him close. He draws his head in for another kiss--there’s nothing soft or brief about this one. The wanton groan into his mouth does as much to Graves’ state of arousal as the feel of the firm flesh under his palm.

At first, the boy’s movements are hesitant: barely-there little shifts in Graves’ lap as though he’s not sure it’s allowed despite their fervent kissing. Graves isn’t having it, he knows the kind of power, the ferocity Credence contains inside himself, and how crucial it is to his wellbeing that he be allowed to let it free from time to time. Aside from that, he can barely contain his own desperate wanting, now that he finally has the boy in his arms properly. 

Graves draws Credence’s long legs to wrap around his hips, and raising slightly on his knees within their circle, presses himself hard into the young man’s groin. Credence bleats out a soft little yelp into the crook of his neck while Graves can feel the way his legs tighten around him, pulling him even closer through sheer instinct. “Yes, that’s it,” he growls, then moans low at the way Credence can’t help but steadily rock in his lap, uncertain movements growing more and more hungry and sure. The boy is a miracle. “Merlin yes, get what you need from me, Credence, it’s yours.” 

Credence croons the sweetest of sounds in the midst of their ragged panting, set loose by Graves’ words and the firm insistence of his hands cupping the curves of his arse through threadbare trousers. His arms are around Graves’ shoulders, holding tight, but it’s the tender little kiss against his neck that finally does Graves in, the bravery of it. Credence claiming him. 

Wet warmth spreads out across the front of Graves’ trousers, darkening the black wool even further as he shudders out his release. Credence stutters a small whimpering cry against his neck as he quickly joins him, and Graves knows it’s from the fact that he was able to bring the man over the edge as much as anything else. He’ll let the boy do it again and again, just as soon as he finds him…. 

“Uh! What?” Graves wakes in bed, barely even sparing a thought for the fact that he’s soiled his sheets yet _again_. He can’t think of much else beyond the weight of his realisation: he came so close to a lucid moment in his dream just now, and likely woke himself up with the excitement of it.


	6. Chapter 6

Once again on a furtive trip down to the communal laundry, Credence is half dazed with his memory of the latest dream. It was so strange, the way he felt… no, _knew_, the man had saved him from some terrible fate. Torn him right out of harm’s way and into his arms. If he wasn’t in love with him already, he would be now. Even though they managed no further exchange of details in the dream, that lingering expectation of rescue in him is stronger than ever.

He stops in his tracks when he enters the laundry where, clearly, renovations are well underway. No one is there, at only 7 in the morning, but half the old machines have already been replaced with brand new, modern ones which run on cards easily topped up via a device on the wall. The most stunning new feature of the room, however, is the photo wall of a sunlit beach, in front of which a few tall rubber palms in blue, sandy beige and turquoise pots have been placed. There’s also a coffee machine, a dispenser of paper cups, and a stack of magazines in the corner of the room on a large table with a few chairs around it, and another long table has been set against the wall, presumably for folding laundry. A gently whirring ceiling fan is spinning overhead.

Credence smiles. Whoever the building benefactor is, he must be a very nice man to provide such a breezy new space for all the tenants, and at his own expense. As soon as he gets his load of laundry underway, he goes back up to the ground floor and knocks on the caretaker’s door; he knows him to start work early in the day.

“Yeah, what is it?” the man grunts as he opens the door. 

“Good morning, Mr Hubbard. I live on the floor above you. Sorry to disturb you so early--”

“Oh yeah, you’re the kid who moved in with the Goldstein girls a couple of months ago, right?” Hubbard checks.

“That’s right. I was just downstairs, and the new laundry looks great!”

Hubbard grins. “I know. The kook from upstairs has pretty good taste.”

Frowning at the dismissive description of such a generous man, Credence asks, “Uh… well, I was wondering… could you tell me the name of the man who paid for the new laundry? I’d like to thank him.”

Hubbard scratches his stubbled cheek. “The guy from up in the penthouse, what’s his name… Gerald? Grant? No, Graves, I think. Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Credence thanks him and heads for the elevator, but then diverts up the stairs back to the apartment. He quietly creeps inside and makes his way to the dining table--Tina is still asleep, and he doesn’t want to wake her--and takes one of the white roses Queenie brought home the day before, hoping she won’t mind him using it as a thank-you gift.

Then he heads to the elevator and takes it up to the top floor, for the first time ever. He stands on the doormat for a moment, suddenly feeling very awkward to show up at a stranger’s apartment at not yet 8 AM, but then knocks softly. A few moments later, he knocks again, still not daring to be very loud.

A minute goes by, then two and, with a sigh, Credence places the rose on the doormat, then touches the door as he stands up again to leave. “Thank you, Mr Graves, whoever you are.”

***

When Graves opens his door and steps out on his way to work, he nearly tramples a white rose, of all odd things. It’s laying across his doormat, not at all haphazardly placed but rather carefully displayed with intention. He’s not sure how he can tell the difference--perhaps something in the angle of how it rests there, waiting--but he can just tell. Of course, immediately he thinks _Credence_, with a joyous lurching of his heart that has him momentarily steadying himself on the doorframe with one hand. His mind racing, he tries to connect the rose with his recent hiring of the detectives, wondering if they’ve found him already and it’s all led to this romantic gesture from the boy himself…

He knows that doesn’t make any sense, not really, and still he can’t quell his hopes. Stooping to lift the rose up from the mat, he brushes the petals softly against his lower lip and nearly groans aloud: it feels so much like the memory of every dream kiss they’ve shared, that ripe, inviting mouth always beckoning him whether he’s sleeping or awake. He brings the rose inside, placing it into a crystal vase to set on his bedside table before he begins calling each of his hired detectives in turn. None of them have discovered anything useful yet, as it turns out, and he’s honestly not surprised to hear it but it frustrates him all the same. 

Before leaving the penthouse, he stands staring at the rose for a long moment, more determined than ever to find his boy, _Credence_, and he wills his love to feel his determination somehow and be reassured by it. ‘I _will_ find you,’ he thinks, fist clenched at his side. 

In the end, Graves winds up turning around halfway down the hall of his apartment building in order to go back inside his penthouse and retrieve the rose. Just like it was with the chocolate coffee, he has no real reason to associate the flower with Credence, and still he does anyway. It’s almost like a sort of talisman, a lucky symbol to keep with him all day as a reminder of what his life’s focus has become. For now, the rose can act as a sort of stand-in for the boy himself, and he can’t bear to be away from it for very long. 

Of course Newt doesn’t know what to make of it when he sees his boss enter the spacious office holding a single long-stem rose in his hand. He knows well enough not to comment on it at least, most likely chalking it all up to his boss’s increasingly bizarre behaviour. Graves strides past him, using his customarily confident bearing to cover for the oddness of it, even stopping at his door briefly to ask his assistant to find him a suitable vase. 

Once he’s inside his office with the door safely closed, he sets the rose down across his desk and sighs. The day is clear and bright outside already, and he decides the room could use a little light, if not for his sake, then for the flower’s. He strides across the office and raises the blinds only to have his second Credence-related shock of the day. The Saks across the street now bears a massive Saint Laurent billboard in black and white, and for a heart-stopping moment, the model bears such a resemblance to his boy that he almost thinks it’s actually him. ‘He _could_ be a model,’ Graves thinks with pride, at the same time wishing he were truly that easy to find. In the end, he decides to send a photo of the advertisement to his sketch artist, using it as an example of where a couple of revisions might be made. 

“Yes, the eyes are just a little more… cat-like,” he’s saying into his phone as Newt comes in with the vase. “Just like this model’s. No no, the model’s jaw is just a touch too soft, but the creamy skin is a definite match…”

***

“Wow Credence,” Queenie says breathlessly as she enters the cafe, “there’s a billboard down the block with a model that looks a lot like you! I almost hadta stop in my tracks!” 

Credence’s eyes widen, then he laughs. “Oh Queenie, as if I could possibly be a model”

She gives him her best stern look. “You could be, if you wanted to, easily.” She smiles at his blush. “I hope you don’t want to be, though, because you’re indispensable here.”

He giggles and quickly changes the subject, before he can get any more self-conscious. “I went down to the laundry this morning. The new renovations look so nice! There’s even coffee!”

“There is?” She blinks in amazement. “I wonder who exactly is actually paying for it all...”

“A Mr Graves,” Credence informs her. “He lives up in the penthouse.”

“Aren’t you the local news source!” Queenie laughs.

Biting his lip, Credence confesses, “I asked Mr Hubbard, and I’m afraid I took one of your roses and left it on his doorstep.”

“On Mr Hubbard’s?”

Credence grins at her horrified expression. “No no! On Mr Graves’ doorstep. I just thought… it’s so kind of him to do that, and I wanted to thank him, but no one answered the door.” He looks a bit sheepish then.

Queenie’s eyes go all soft. “That’s really sweet of you. I don’t mind about the rose! Pity you didn’t get to meet him though. Just think… he could be gorgeous as well as kind!” When Credence’s jaw drops even as he frowns, she adds, “Your dream guy might get jealous about you leaving him flowers though.”

Credence huffs out a laugh. “Queenie, he’s probably a lonely old pensioner with lots of money but no one to do nice things for.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs, but a little glint shows in her eyes. “Then again, maybe not.”

Credence hopes fervently she doesn’t decide to try and set him up with anyone, because he knows how her mind works and wouldn’t put it past her to try and wean him off his dreams this way. He doesn’t want to be. He _won’t_ be. He knows that all he has to do is wait for his love to find him, and he’ll wait however long it takes. Even if he himself is old and grey by then.

“Customers coming!” he tells Queenie, nodding towards the door as it opens and hoping the subject is closed.

One of the first people to come through the door is the young frazzled man from the other day, the one with the difficult boss. As he enters the cafe flanked by a couple of other random patrons, he glances expectantly beyond the counter as though wanting to see something other than the menu board. Queenie gives him a commiserating smile even as she seems highly amused somehow. 

“Tina’s not on her shift yet today,” she says softly as he steps up to the counter, first in line. As soon as Credence hears that, he remembers how Queenie had mentioned the developing flirtation between those two and he watches the man’s shoulders sag slightly. He knows all too well how it feels to have such high hopes about someone all the time, especially when those hopes are dashed, even momentarily. 

The customer tries to smile it away, even though it’s obvious he’s disappointed. “It’s… well, it’s just as well, I suppose,” he says, eyes darting about like a frightened little bird that never seems to find a proper perch. “My boss seems to favour his morning coffee when _this_ young man here makes it.” He gestures towards Credence as he says it, which only makes Credence blush terribly. 

“Oh! Well, then!” Jacob’s cheerful voice makes the already nervous customer jump as it carries out to them from the other side of the room. Credence is reminded then of just how good his boss’ ears really are; it has him fervently hoping the man hasn’t overheard any of his ‘dream dilemmas’ when he’s shared them with Queenie the past few days in the shop. It’s only a few seconds before Jacob has made his way over to the nearly frightened looking young man, fishing in his pocket until he pulls out a small card with a QR code and a web address and hands it to him with a beaming smile. 

“If your boss is so happy with our barista, maybe he’d like to fill out one of our new comment cards on our website!” 

The customer just smiles and nods absently as he takes the card and stuffs it into the pocket of his bright blue coat. Credence has no idea if the man’s boss will actually take the time to leave a complimentary review, but he can’t help thinking how odd this employer must be, if his assistant is anything to go by. Especially in his preference for Credence’s handiwork over either of the girls; it feels as though he’s only just still getting the feel for each beverage while Tina and Queenie are polished experts. 

***

When Graves is handed that morning’s mochachino, along with a little card headed ‘Kowalski’s’, he says, “Thank you, Newt. What’s this--a customer loyalty card?”

“Oh no. It’s for feedback. I thought you might like to… well, you seem to enjoy this mochachino a lot.” Newt shrugs a little awkwardly.

“You’re the one buying it. Maybe you’d better.” Graves moves to hand him the card when a call comes through on his mobile. He waves Newt away, tucking the card under his monitor stand, and answers the phone.

“Just an update, Mr Graves,” the second detective he hired tells him, and his heart skips in excitement.

“Yes? Have you found him?” He’s on the edge of his seat.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve managed to turn up a number of Credences so far--most well outside the age group you suggested, and the ones who are somewhere near it don’t fit the physical description and sketch you’ve given us at all.

Graves sighs. “All right. Keep looking.”

After he’s ended the call, he picks up the original of the sketch he’s copied for the detectives and looks at it, unable to stop himself from tracing every single ink line making up those remarkable features lovingly. “Where are you, my love…” he murmurs. “Tell me how to find you.” 

The sketch just looks at him with those soulful eyes--pleadingly, he thinks--and he sighs again. Absently, he reaches for the mochachino, noting vaguely that it’s once again delicious. And then an idea comes to him. He’s going to organise his own search, in a very old-fashioned way: with a ‘Wanted’ poster. After all… he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. He smiles. 

Graves is in his office, where he’s supposed to be--but it’s not quite his work office, or the quiet study in his home. It’s an ideal space: dark mahogany wood, persian carpets, a blazing fire in a nearby hearth. Everything in the room is antique, old-fashioned, and the carved wooden desk he sits at is nearly twice the size he’s accustomed to working on. Which is just as well, since a good portion of its surface is currently occupied by Credence, flushed and panting with his shirt half-undone. One rosy nipple peeks out of the gap in its folds, and Graves is happy to find that the boy’s pants have already been conveniently cast aside on the carpeted floor; somehow he knows that was his own doing, and he smiles over it, a little proud. 

He doesn’t stand up from where he’s sitting, instead simply reaching forward to grasp the curves of Credence’s bottom through the briefs he’s still wearing and pull him forward, closer to the edge of the desk. And to himself. Credence gasps, while long, pale legs spread apart to either side of Grave’s torso, and he can see clearly the wet patch that glistens and grows across the cotton stretched taut over the boy’s hardness. Everything Graves wants is right here, within easy reach. All he has to do is bow his head. 

“God, I’ve been thinking about this all day, baby,” he murmurs, and does just that, brushing his half-open mouth along the length of Credence’s erection through his briefs. The boy moans low and grips the edge of the desk with both hands, legs spreading even further to open himself up to Graves without any reservation. “_Please_,” he whimpers softly, somewhere above Graves’ head. 

Graves is momentarily torn between the urge to draw things out, and his own burning appetite. He really _has_ been thinking of this all day. It’s enough to relish the way Credence’s legs faintly tremble at either side of him as he slowly teases his generous length out through the slit in his underwear to stand tall and be admired. “Honestly, Credence, you have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen,” he says, a little breathlessly, and then he leans forward to suckle gently at the slick head. 

“Oh god, oh _fuck_,” Credence pleads, canting his hips up to chase the wet warmth of Graves’ mouth, to push in a little deeper. Graves holds him in place with a broad hand over each of his thighs, drawing back with a slow, slurping noise that feels obscene in the quiet afternoon, in such a civilised place. “Patience, baby.” 

He can actually hear Credence’s nails as they faintly scrape at the polished wood, and above that sound, the softest whisper: “_Daddy…_” 

“Call me that again and you can have anything you want,” Graves growls, and dips his head again to take the boy more firmly into the heat of his mouth. Above him, as he licks and sucks with focussed vigour, he hears the affectionate name being spoken again and again in rising notes of desperation. Credence is going to come, so hard, and Graves is going to savour every pulse; his right hand leaves its place on the boy’s thigh to tug and fumble at the fastenings of his own trousers beneath the desk. He groans at the feel of a hand twining tightly in his neatly pomaded hair, the eager thrust and slide of Credence’s perfect cock nudging the roof of his mouth… “Daddy! Oh fuck, oh _god!_”...he’s going to come in his pants…

A knock at the door jolts him so hard out of his sleep, he bangs his knee against the underside of his office desk and curses. For a moment, he doesn’t even understand where he is… he stares at the finished wanted poster on his computer screen in confusion. The time displayed on the corner of his monitor is 5:46 PM, and Newt’s muffled voice through the door is saying goodbye for the day, and is everything all right?


	7. Chapter 7

“Excuse me… _excuse me_… isn’t this where you usually get off, young man?”

Credence blearily opens his eyes to meet the bespectacled gaze of an elderly gentleman he’s seen on the train before. He gulps, all at once aware what’s happened--he fell asleep right there on the subway to one of _those_ dreams. “Uh… y-yes, I think…” He looks out the window, realises it really is his station, and scrambles to get to his feet. He winces, his cock as hard as a baseball bat stuffed down his trousers. Tucking his coat around himself, he mutters an embarrassed ‘thank you’ to the man and hurriedly leaves the train.

On the street outside the station, Credence stops for a moment as the dream washes over him. He’s never been so turned on in his life, the two of them had been swaddled up in the feeling together like a heavy blanket of pure lust; he wants the man so badly his skin burns with it, and his hands shake. He’s so lucky he didn’t make a mess of himself right there on the train, and at the same time, he feels nearly brokenhearted to have had the dream pulled from him so abruptly, and at such a crucial moment. The only thing left for him to do--the only thing he can even spare a thought for--is to get inside his home and follow the last traces of his dream straight towards relief. There’s no way he can just count to 10 and have this one fade away; he’s _aching_. 

Escaping straight to the bathroom, after throwing his coat on the hall stand and muttering a rushed ‘hello’ to Queenie in the kitchen, he locks the door behind himself and struggles out of his clothes. He’s inside the shower before they’ve even fully settled in the laundry hamper, and he won’t even bother to try the cold water treatment. 

His soapy hand tightens around his cock, and he prays the noise of the rushing water covers his heartfelt moan. The image of the man sitting between his spread legs, regarding him as if he was the finest delicacy, pops up in his mind without effort. At once, it’s _his_ hand gripping him, just the way he’s grown used to already--firmly but with utmost care, as if Credence’s cock is a priceless, fragile work of art. 

“Daddy…” he gasps, the way he did in the dream. He doesn’t know what possessed him, but the man’s reaction to it makes him hope he’ll remember to do it again, in another dream. Or better yet… in reality. “I’m yours, daddy,” he whispers, stroking his throbbing length under the hot stream. Muscles weaker by the moment, he slides down the tiled wall to the shower floor, knees apart. At once, he knows his ‘daddy’ would take advantage of the position, and a soapy finger finds its way to his hole. He breaches it with ease, grunting in shocked pleasure at the way the sensation matches the scene in his mind. He knows that look of hunger from his daddy by now, he needs to see it while awake, more than he needs air to breathe.

In all of his dreams so far, he’s never had the man he now thinks of as _daddy_ all the way inside himself, never been taken by him that way. But Credence knows that’s what he wants, even as he slides a second finger in alongside the first with a low groan. He pretends it’s _him_, and just the thought of it--that man pressed up against him, hard for him and buried deep--has him coming with a stifled cry into the warm, swirling water. 

***

“Credence… oh _god_, baby…” 

This is what it’s come to. Graves is in the washroom attached to his office, the trousers of his suit hastily pushed down and his hand tight around himself. When he’d been so rudely woken, it had taken him mere moments to call out a muffled “good night” through the door and make his way quickly in here; there would be no waiting to get home. Not with the way his blood had still been pumping, and all the precious images still lingering in his head. The boy had called him _daddy_... Knowing he’s alone now, he lets himself give full voice to the groan that thought drags out of him. 

He doesn’t know how Credence manages to do this to him, bringing him straight to his knees through dreams alone, but every moment he’s shared with the boy has been better than anything he’s experienced in real life. ‘No,’ he thinks, ‘this _is_ real life.’ Credence is real, and he’s out there someplace, and when Graves finds him, they’re both locking up behind closed doors for a full week, _minimum_. He’s not sure how he’ll even survive it, taking the boy properly for the first time… 

In his imagination, Graves resurrects the dream where he left it off, carrying things exactly where he wants them to go. He pictures himself standing finally from the office chair in that sumptuous, quiet room, trousers undone just as they are here in reality. Imagines wrapping Credence’s long legs around his waist as the boy moans and pants and begs that one sweet word: _daddy_. 

And he’s prepared Credence, of course he has, with careful fingers and more than enough lube, opened and stretched his little pink hole tenderly to take him in. So when he pulls him forward and his cock slides home, there’s not a trace of resistance. He can practically hear the gasped, ‘Ahhh... daddy… _yes!_’

“Fuck!” The back of Graves’ head bangs against the door behind him as his hand--sticky with his fluids--tightens and slides up his shaft. He’s dripping on the tiles. He’s so hard, it’s painful. Eyes squeezed firmly closed, he watches the rapture on his love’s features, feels the panting breaths against his skin, hears the whimpers and moans driving him crazy. He pumps into his fist… into Credence… hard now, knowing his boy wants more… faster… by the way his legs tighten around him and he begs _so_ prettily.

“Credence…” Graves moans, shooting in an arc that splashes onto the tiles obscenely. He couldn’t care less. He doesn’t even hear it, because in his mind, he’s inside his love.

When he sinks down to sit propped against the door, knees weak, he’s dismayed to feel tears of desperation pricking at his eyes. These posters have to work. They _have_ to! He needs Credence in his life, and he needs him soon, or his sanity may end up being a thing of the past.

***

Credence is sitting in front of the TV, eating dinner with Queenie while they watch some romantic drama she favours. They don’t usually do things this way--normally they would sit at the kitchen table with a bit of light music, perhaps--but something about this day feels a little more lazy and indulgent. Queenie hasn’t commented on the fact that Credence raced into the shower the second he got through the door, and he’s grateful for that, but he can tell that she knows he’s even more off-kilter than ever this evening. He feels almost as if he’s in a dream all the time now, and at the same time, he wishes he really was. Because at least that way he could spend as much time with his _daddy_ as he likes. 

“Tina’s new crush sure is a nervous little guy, isn’t he?” Queenie asks between bites during a commercial break, to which Credence only smiles and nods. “But he’s cute enough,” she continues with an approving nod, “only I wonder what kind of boss he has, to make him seem so frazzled all the time.” 

“I mean--he might just already be that way,” Credence begins to answer, and just as quickly, he nearly drops his fork into his plate of casserole as he sees the next commercial opening on the screen. There’s a man in well-worn white henley, dark-eyed and even darker-browed, lounging on a beach as he broods longingly out at the ocean. For a moment, Credence is completely out of breath, and even after a second or two, when he can see that the man on the screen isn’t _quite_ the right match for his lover, the moment has still completely shaken him. It’s just an ad for a Dolce and Gabbana cologne; even still, Credence feels for a second or two as though he might be losing his mind. 

“Credence, what’s wrong?” Queenie asks next to him on the couch. 

“Uh, nothing, I just… for a second I thought.. it’s dumb, really. You’re probably tired of hearing about it by now.” 

Queenie turns to the screen to catch the last few seconds of the Intenso commercial, eyes widening. “Oh, Credence…” she says in a hushed voice, “did you think this guy was the one from your dreams?” 

He feels totally silly about it now, but he isn’t going to lie and so he nods morosely. 

“Well, no wonder you’re so eager to get to sleep these days!” Queenie laughs. “Who could blame you?” 

He blushes, picking at the handle of his fork as he lowers his eyes.

“Aww, come on, Credence.” Queenie smiles. “Tell you what--as soon as you can get a name or something out of him one night, we’ll go in search of him, okay?”

Surprised, he looks up. “You mean you believe me?” he asks cautiously.

She chooses her words for a few moments and then says, “There’s something about how sure you are of him that’s contagious. And you know, if anyone deserves something really _good_, like a fairytale romance, it’s you.”

He can’t help the tears springing to his eyes, but he swipes at them quickly. He smiles through them when Queenie reaches over to ruffle his hair, and the smile turns into relieved, and slightly giddy, laughter at her next words.

“If I help you find him, I’m going to insist on being your bridesmaid!”

Blinking the last of the tears from his eyes, Credence assures her, “Even if he finds me first… done.”

***

The next day, Graves practically sneaks out of his own office during his lunch break to visit a printer. He can’t help the possibility of Newt seeing one of the flyers he’s having printed and recognising the contact number as his boss’ own personal mobile number given to very, very few and only for absolute emergencies. It’s unlikely; Newt is far too distracted to even stop and look at the flyer pinned to some random window. And even if he did… Graves is quickly running out of qualms about his own privacy and reputation in the face of his ever more desperate search.

He leaves the printer with an impressive stack of paper. He’ll have to hire people to distribute them but, for now, he starts with the immediate surroundings of his office block and the adjoining ones. Pinning up flyers, it turns out, isn’t as easy as all that; most businesses refuse to relinquish a few inches of window space, and it appears every free bit of public wall space has a ‘no notices’ sign. He pays for a number of spaces, and ignores the signs, perfectly happy to deal with any complaints to his mobile people wish to lodge. If he gets a hundred calls and only one of them leads him to Credence, he’ll humbly apologise to the other 99 callers.

While passing near the coffee shop with the delightful mochachino, he considers stopping off for a moment, but there’s a long queue--the place is popular, and no wonder--and he has his arms full of flyers, so he moves on, pinning one of them up on the nearest corner, just by the subway entrance. Even as he works, fighting against the wind to hold the poster down long enough to attach it, he knows that between this and the detectives… well, he’s not sure how he will keep from falling into despair if neither of them work. Go back to doing kind deeds in the hope that karma will bless him, he supposes. 

He didn’t even manage to get any sleep at all the night before, he was so caught up in his worries, and the loss of any potential time with his boy has his mood turning especially sour. 

***

Credence is trying his best not to feel too glum, especially not after the absolute perfection of the dream he had on the ride home two days before. But, as he climbs up the steps from his stop onto street level, he can’t help but be weighed down with the disappointment of two completely dreamless nights, back to back. It’s almost as if, the more wonderful the dreams become, the more unbearable the waking time after feels in comparison. It seems suddenly so unfair, that he should escape his terrible home life only to be tortured this way, and the thought makes him feel ungrateful at the same time. 

Just outside the subway entrance, a homeless man huddles in a corner against the walls of the nearest convenience store. He sits in a loose pile of dirty old blankets, with a little repurposed paper sign held down on the street in front of himself, pinned in place by a couple of stones. Credence reads the plea for help scrawled in black marker, squinting a little at the spots where a few of the words seem to impose over a backwards phone number showing through from the opposite side. It seems like the saddest detail to Credence then, that the man would need to use found scraps just to make himself a sign, and he still feels guilty for his own ungrateful thoughts. 

He fishes around in his coat pocket, seeking out the last few quarters he no longer needs to keep handy for the laundry machines at home. ‘_There’s_ something to definitely feel grateful about,’ he thinks, as he drops the coins into the old man’s dented cup. ‘The mysterious Mr Graves.’

***

Graves is not in a good mood the next morning. There was no sleep the night before, and no dream the following night either, and that alone is enough to fear the worst when he phones one detective after another, only to receive the same discouraging news from all three of them: if his Credence exists (of course he does!), he’s extremely low profile.

As for his other plan… Aside from two annoyed citizens phoning him to complain about his flyers, and one call offering him a litter of newborn kittens to ease the pain of having a missing person, he’s heard nothing promising at all.

He sent Newt off for another mochachino, fully expecting that not to be up to the standard he’s become accustomed to, but that, at least, is as delicious as usual, even though he’s tempted to cry into it.

While sipping, his eyes fall on the feedback card tucked under his monitor stand, and he decides now is as good a time as any to return to doing good deeds. The gourmet barista who prepared his drink certainly deserves praise.

“Newt,” he says, when his assistant hurries back into his office as requested over the intercom, mere moments after leaving. “You don’t happen to know the name of the person who prepared this?” He holds up the cup in one hand and the card in the other. “I’m just going to leave some comments.”


	8. Chapter 8

Newt scratches his head and ponders. “Give me a moment, Mr Graves. I did notice his name tag. It’s a strange kind of name, old fashioned.”

Graves raises a brow. “Ebenezer? Mordecai?” he suggests.

Newt laughs. “No, it’s not that bad. It starts with a C--”

Graves jumps to his feet so suddenly, Newt takes a couple of steps back. “Newt, listen to me… be very sure about this when you answer: is it… Credence?”

Newt’s eyes light up. “That’s it!” 

The room spins around Graves. “What does he look like?” he asks, barely able to get the words out. He’s tempted to clutch his chest, so alarming is his heart rate.

“Oh, well… he’s quite tall, dark hair, slim… I’m not really sure. I was a little distracted by… uh...” Newt suddenly grins and heads towards the window. “Actually, sir, he looks a lot like the guy in that new Saks poster on-- Sir?”

Graves is halfway to the door already. He’s heard enough. “You’re in for a huge raise, Newt!” 

As he makes his way down the block, his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, a constant pulsing pressure clenching and releasing his whole body over and over again. A part of him can barely believe this is actually real, actually happening, and the greater part of him is screaming with urgency along with his pulse. It’s as though he’s afraid the boy might disappear if he doesn’t hurry, like if he doesn’t get there within seconds, he’ll cease to exist. He thinks suddenly of the miraculous fact that Credence has been the one crafting those drinks this whole time--the only pleasure in his life beyond the dreams--and _of course_ that’s how it would turn out to be. Everything good leads back to Credence.

Graves is only half a block away when he begins to run outright, dodging pedestrians, unmindful of how crazy he must look with his tie flapping over his shoulder like the streamers on a kite. 

He reaches the door of the cafe, panting for breath, and already he can see the boy through the glass. His head is slightly bowed as he drizzles chocolate syrup over somebody’s drink, face a little sad.

Heart in his throat, Graves wonders if he’s drawing a little palm tree and then stifles the sudden sob that tries to escape him. He’s so full of love it _hurts_. The bell jingles softly over his head as he opens the door, and he knows that he will remember this moment for the rest of his life, every detail. The sound of his own breathless voice speaking Credence’s name, the small frown as the boy looks up, the trembling of his lip as their eyes connect. Graves is aware of a few curious heads turning, but he doesn’t pay them any mind: he’ll have no attention for anything but Credence for the rest of his days. 

***

If anyone had asked Credence to guess at the most important moment of his life, he wouldn’t have said ‘while drizzling chocolate syrup on a stranger’s coffee’.

Yet he knows... _knows_, the moment he hears his name spoken like a prayer, that this is it. This is the moment. There’s a brief instant of wondering whether he’s fallen asleep at work. As he looks up, he digs the nail of his left thumb into a fingertip and it _hurts_, telling him he’s awake. Then, all the pain he’s ever felt stops.

His heart is pounding, and his lips part with the need to speak a name he doesn’t know. Not that he has breath to speak. He’s vaguely aware that someone is taking the bottle of syrup from his hand and talking to him, but all his focus is on the wonderful expression of joy on his daddy’s face at his mere existence, and a sob escapes him. He covers his mouth, unaware he’s drizzled chocolate over his fingers. 

Hands are reaching for him, with a touch that’s _so_ familiar as they steer him gently by his shoulder and elbow to the edge of the counter. By the time he’s free to move forward, tears are pouring down his cheeks. The hands cup his face while the man’s eyes look at him with near desperation. He swipes his thumbs over Credence’s cheekbones with utmost tenderness, and it’s impossible to remember how anything in their dreams could have felt as undeniably _real_ as this.

Then the hands are no longer on his face but pulling him close, and he can only hold on tight when their lips meet with the impact, but none of the force, of a tsunami.

Even the most erotic moments of the dreams pale in comparison to just this kiss, the sheer passion of it. The man’s lips are soft but relentless, and Credence’s mouth parts to him at once, eliciting a groan of pure _want_ and a further tightening of the arms around him. He feels as if he’s been swept right up off the ground. His mouth is plundered as he clutches at the bent nape, fingers sliding into the short dark hair on the back of the man’s head. He can taste chocolate and coffee, of all things, but through them the man himself as their breath mingles.

***

Graves knows people are staring, murmuring, and still his only focus is on the taste and feel of his boy, warm and alive and _real_ in his arms. How could dreams ever have compared to _this_? He hears one of the other girls on staff--the blonde, he thinks--speaking in hushed and concerned tones somewhere just beyond them: “Credence… is this? Oh my god, the man from your _dreams_!” 

He breaks the kiss only for a second to meet Credence’s eyes in astonishment. The boy huffs out a laugh through his tears and nods frantically even though the girl surely can’t see it. “You told people about me…” Graves whispers, eyes caressing every centimetre of the boy’s face in pure wonder. “This is real, you _know_ me. I--” 

“I think I know you better than I even know myself,” Credence rushes to respond in a ragged voice. “Sometimes I think you’re the _only_ thing I know at all.” 

“Oh god, _Credence_.” Graves twines his fingers into the dense black curls and pulls him in for another searing kiss, this one slow and deep, almost too much for public view. He hears a few nervous giggles flutter about the cafe behind them, a disapproving cough or two. ‘Let them watch’ he thinks fiercely. ‘I’ll have him right here on the countertop if he asks me to.’ 

Credence comes up gasping for air. “What’s your name?” he asks, even while he nips again at Graves’ lips with his own, now kiss-stained and swollen, like he can’t bear to part long enough to even breathe. 

Graves spares a moment to return the kiss again, catching the boy’s tongue lightly between his teeth. He’s grown so hard already, he’s nearly faint with it. “Percival Graves,” he rasps out with effort. He can barely think of his own name just now. 

“Graves?” Credence’s eyes have gone wide, almost disbelieving. “The man in the penthouse upstairs? The… the _laundry room_.” 

What he’s saying shouldn’t make sense at all--just a disjointed collection of words--but it does. There’s a moment where Graves feels a confused mix of triumph and outright anger, to know they’ve been so painfully close all this time. Right there. “Did you leave a rose on my doorstep, Credence?” he whispers. “Please tell me that was you.” 

The boy lets out a sob, this one loud enough to cause a few more heads to turn. Credence is nodding again, fervently, and trying to say ‘yes’ even though the word is clearly beyond him. Graves glances up at the blonde hoving nearby and meets her understanding eyes for a moment. Makes a decision.

“Well, I’m taking you _home_, then.” He says.

***

Credence’s heart skips madly. He can hardly look away from… Percival’s (he’s never known a more beautiful name!) face long enough to meet Jacob’s eyes. His boss is standing beside Queenie, grinning. “I need to go now, Jacob,” he croaks. He doesn’t ask for permission. There’s no question.

Jacob laughs. “You sure do.” A very happy looking Queenie is holding out her hands for his apron, and he starts to fumble with it clumsily, suddenly unable to remember how it even ties up.

“Allow me.” Percival is smiling at him, his tender, reassuring hands reaching around him to undo his knot. His eyes are fixed on Credence’s, however, even when he pulls the loop over his head and holds the apron out to a waiting Queenie. Then he takes Credence’s hands and draws him towards the door, and before they’re even quite there, someone starts to clap. Then someone else.

Credence goes bright red, and Percival laughs that familiar, beautiful laugh that lights up his warm eyes, but he gets Credence outside as quickly as possible and keeps going right to the curb to hail a taxi.

Credence can’t stop looking at him, and a taxi seems to appear almost as if by magic within moments. He’s helped inside with care, while Percival tells the driver his… their address, and then they’re on the way.

“Oh… do you have to tell…” Credence mutters.

Percival smiles at him, stroking his cheek. “What, darling?”

A full body shiver runs through Credence, and he smiles back. “About going home… in the middle of the day… I _love_ when you call me darling.”

“Come here,” Percival says, and Credence is in his arms, awkwardly leaning into him on the backseat; he’s never felt more warm or secure. There’s a whisper close to his ear. “I love when you call me daddy.”

Credence squeaks against the solid chest, which gets him a soft laugh. “You remember that?”

“I remember all manner of wonderful moments with you, but you know what?” Percival says, pressing a kiss into his curls. “We’re going to make even more wonderful ones, beginning today and never stopping.”

Credence sighs contentedly, and his arms tighten around Percival’s middle. “Oh yes, please,” he agrees. A sound of satisfaction rumbles through the chest under his cheek. He inhales deeply, because the dreams fell remarkably short when it came to conveying Percival’s masculine, comforting scent.

“I’m desperate to kiss you again.” The murmur is followed by a soft brush of lips over the tip of his ear. “But the next time I start, I don’t want to stop until we run out of breath.”

***

Graves couldn’t manage to usher Credence into the elevator fast enough. Now that they’re here, inside of it alone and with so many floors to ascend, he can’t manage to relinquish his hold on the boy for even half a second, security cameras be damned. 

He can’t remember the last time he was in any kind of situation like this in real life. No, scratch that-- he’s _never_ experienced anything like this before. The tingling anticipation of what will happen once they’re _truly_ behind closed doors, the nearly savage lust gripping at his molten insides. He wants, simply, to breathe Credence in, to fold him up inside himself and keep him there forever. For now, he tries to content himself with this utterly teenage display of making out in the elevator with a man who is most definitely half his age. 

“Is this-- is this okay?” He pants out over Credence’s glistening red lips, one hand carefully sliding up beneath the hem of his thin cotton t-shirt. He can feel the boy’s heart pounding underneath his palm, shuddering through the ladder of his ribs. 

“Yes, yes this is _so_ okay,” Credence gulps in response, trailing off on a pained whimper as Graves’ fingers find and lightly pinch one tender nipple. “Oh _goddd_,” he moans, grasping to hold onto Graves’ suit jacket as he does it again, this time a little firmer.

‘To hell with it,’ Graves thinks, hiking the boy’s shirt up around his collarbone to catch the other nipple between his lips. The resulting sound Credence makes: something like a stuttering groan tangled up with a squeal, is absolutely worth any kind of scene they’re making for the superintendent. Graves can see, glancing down, just how hard they both are, straining towards each other through fabric, and the sight draws a groan out of him as well. 

Credence is just as in tune with him as he is in dreams, saying above his head in a shaky voice: “I-- I’m worried I’m gonna come right here before we get inside.” 

Graves glances up at his face and smiles. “You’ve been having that problem too, huh?”

***

Credence looks down at him, biting his lip and nodding. “I can’t think about you anymore without getting hard.” He blushes; Percival looks very pleased. “The other day, I almost… uh… embarrassed myself on the subway. After that dream--”

“The desk?” Percival asks, straightening up again, but without abandoning his chest. His palms are warm on Credence’s ribs and his thumbs circle maddeningly across his peaked nipples.

Credence sucks in a shivery breath. “Yeah, the desk.”

“I slept with my head on my real desk, where you should have been sitting.”

Giggling, Credence nuzzles at his jaw. “Anytime you want me on your desk…” He stops, half embarrassed at talking that way.

Percival moans in a way that makes him tremble. “Oh baby,” he whispers against Credence’s parted lips, forehead against his. “I want you _everywhere_, and I’m going to have you everywhere. Is that okay with you?”

“Uh-huh…” Credence gasps out.

There’s a soft bell, and a jolt, as the elevator stops, and they take a moment to catch their breath and pull their clothes back into place, before Percival pulls him along by his hand. They stop at the door mat where Percival unlocks the door with shaking fingers. He glances over his shoulder. “I’m curious… why did you bring me the rose?”

Credence smiles. “To say thank you for the laundry room.”

Percival pushes the door open. He looks at him tenderly, then picks him up in both arms with ease, much to Credence’s astonishment. “You’re just the sweetest thing, aren’t you? A real angel.” He smiles. “My angel.”

“All yours.” Credence, with both arms around Percival’s neck, lets himself be carried inside, sighing happily. Percival uses his feet to give the door a push, and then they’re finally, definitely alone.

***

The entrance hall is dim when they enter the penthouse, and Credence’s pale skin glows in what little light there is. Just like the petals of that rose Graves still can’t believe he left on the doorstep as an anonymous gesture of thanks. It’s astonishing, really, and so absolutely right that _this_ is who Credence should turn out to be in reality: sweet, and kind, and beyond perfect. The boy is giggling now at being carried bridal-style through the unfamiliar space, glancing around to catch sight of what he can as he’s whisked towards Graves’ bedroom; it’s the happiest, most beautiful sound these four walls have ever heard, easily. The thought that his life will include this now has Graves on the brink of swooning.

The giggling continues as Graves deposits all the gangly length of him onto the end of his large bed, only now the sound has taken on a breathless tinge he recognises from the elevator. And from so many of his dreams. The sight of the boy’s smile clutches at his heart like a fist. Graves leans forward and catches the smile against his lips, feeling Credence’s mouth instantly parting for him with another soft moan. 

“You said you were on the verge of coming, back there,” Graves eventually says in the midst of plundering kisses. “I’d like to help you with that.” 

The boy’s eyes are wide and his whole body is trembling at the edge of the bed. “You would?” he breathes, as though he still can’t believe it, even here, panting in Graves’ room.

Graves kisses him once more before dropping down to his knees on the carpet, hands already shaking at the button of Credence’s jeans. 

“Sweetheart, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this since that last unbelievable dream,” Graves tells him, and realises as he says it that he’s literally panting for it, he’s so turned on at the very prospect of living out that particular fantasy. “It’s not my desk, but--” 

“It’s okay!” Credence blurts out, promptly turning an adorable shade of red at his own obvious eagerness. “I-- I want that, too,” he confesses. “_so_ badly. And I’m… comfortable with you. We’ve, we’ve _done_ this all before, after all. Haven’t we?... Daddy?” 

Even though he barely whispers that last word, Graves feels his cock twitch, leaking a wet smear against the skin just underneath the waistband of his suit. “Oh god, yes we have, baby.” He undoes and removes the boy’s jeans quickly then, and with focus, not sure if he’ll be able to keep from coming himself at little more than the sight being quickly revealed for him. Credence is watching him, propped up with hands on either side of himself against the mattress, flushed and biting his own lip in anticipation. He’s exactly like he was in that dream, down to the wet patch on the strained cotton of his briefs, and Graves groans. With trembling hands, he gently tugs the underwear down to his ankles with such care you’d think the boy was made of spun glass, the stuff of _dreams_. Without letting go of Credence’s wide eyes, he leans forward and runs his lips and the tip of his tongue along the firm shaft, tasting him for real, properly, for the first time. The realisation that he won’t be waking up from this suddenly strikes him hard enough he fears he might weep. 

*** 

Credence is overwhelmed by the tender _worship_\--and it’s nothing less than that, the way Percival kneels between his legs and gazes up at him while tasting him. Maybe even more overwhelmed because this man, for whom he’s waited so desperately, looks on the verge of tears over him, and his heart clenches even as he quickly swipes at his own cheek. 

He reaches out and touches Percival’s face with damp fingers, his hand shaking badly. “This is real,” he whispers. “You’re real. I so badly needed you to be real.” 

Percival’s hand takes over for his mouth. He wraps it around Credence’s hard length, leaning up towards him for another kiss even as he strokes him. Between sweet, panting kisses, he murmurs, “I would have gone mad if you weren’t. I looked for you so many ways. And you were right here all along, in this very building.”

“For nearly 3 months, anyway,” Credence murmurs. Then he gasps, and their eyes meet with the same realisation. “That’s when the dreams started.”

Percival cups the back of his head, kisses him again, smiles at him. “We just had to be close enough to each other, I guess.”

“I never want to be far from you, ever again,” Credence confesses.

“You won’t be. I won’t have it,” Percival promises. His grip tightens on Credence’s cock, and his hand curls around his nape, smiling at the purring moan this gets him. “You’re mine, baby, night _and_ day.”

“Yes…” Credence almost sings it, and then his jaw drops when Percival sinks down fully again, parts his knees wider, and slides him into his warm, wonderful mouth. “Oh.. _god!_” His back arches, fingers curling into the bedding and toes into the carpet.

By this point, it only takes a stroke or two inside that delicious heat before he's coming: a full-body orgasm that cycles through him with astonishing force. His whole body is a live circuit, a conduit of pleasure that leaves his legs shaking and nipples tingling. Graves drinks him down as though it's all that will keep him alive. 

***

Watching, hearing and tasting Credence come undone, and with no danger of an alarm clock or an ill-timed knock ripping it all from him, is nearly enough to make Graves burst. He stretches up and slides his arm around the boy’s waist to catch the last sobbing gasp of his orgasm in a kiss.

Credence returns the kiss hungrily, clinging to him in a way that makes Graves’ heart trip over itself. “I’ve got you, my love.” He kisses and reassures, then laughs huskily when the boy starts fumbling with his collar and buttons and tie all at once. “Let me help,” he offers, stilling the eager hands against his chest.

Sitting back, bottom lip between his teeth, Credence nods.

“Do you want to reach for that bedside drawer? Get that small blue tube for me?”

Credence obeys eagerly while Graves removes his tie and shirt, then gets to his feet to slide off his shoes and socks. His trousers and underwear are halfway down his hips when Credence focusses all his attention on him, lube in one hand and leaning on the other. “Oh daddy,” he breathes, “you’re so handsome.”

Graves wonders if Credence has any concept of just what it does to him to hear that from his beautiful lips, sitting there in front of him in nothing but a T-Shirt… now, how did he miss that? He smiles slowly. “Now, let daddy see all of you too, baby.”

Credence obeys eagerly, pulling the top off and leaving his silky black hair in tangles.

They fall down to the sides of the long neck, and Graves slides his fingers through them. “Beautiful…” he whispers. “Absolutely perfect.”

Even as he’s blushing, Credence pushes Graves’ trousers down his thighs. With Graves' fingers still tangled in his curls, the boy leans forward on the edge of the bed to press a hesitant kiss over the head of his cock, making him gasp out like a drowning swimmer. "Baby, you're gonna make me come if you're not careful," he rasps, petting the soft curls underneath his hands.

"I _want_ to make you come," Credence answers, blinking up at him and somehow looking innocent as an angel while doing it. "I want to make you feel good, daddy. But--" 

"What is it, love?" Graves asks him, ready to pull away and stop if the boy tells him he's become overwhelmed. 

"Can you…" Credence blushes so sweetly as Graves holds his breath. "I want you inside me," he finally says, "all the way. Like we never got to in the dreams…" 

Graves closes his eyes for a moment and swallows loudly. When he opens his eyes again, the sight of Credence's earnest, hopeful face still so close to his cock nearly does him in right there. "Baby, are you sure?" he asks hoarsely. "Are you ready for that?" 

Credence ducks his head and flushes red before meeting his eyes again a little shyly. "I… I know I can fit two of my fingers, at least. I did the other day, in the shower. After that last dream." 

"Oh god, _Credence _..." Graves sits down hard next to him at the edge of the bed; he doesn't trust his legs to hold him at the moment. All he can picture is Credence, doing _that_ to himself while thinking of _him_. "I want that more than anything, baby," he breathes. "If I can keep from coming just while I prepare you, that is."

***

“Would it help if I… if I prepared myself?” Credence asks more boldly than he feels, though the flare of heat in Percival’s eyes when he mentioned having done it before has made him almost breathless with excitement and a desperate need to please.

Percival huffs out a soft, husky laugh. “It might help me come even faster, baby, but I have to admit, I would _love_ to watch you make yourself ready for me.” He uncaps the lube as he shifts to face Credence on the bed, drawing one of the long legs onto the mattress and bending it at the knee for a better view.

Credence flushes under his gaze, nibbling his lip as his fingers are covered, very generously, with the slippery gel. He’s so eager to feel Percival inside him, needs to feel him, that his embarrassment is a minor issue at this point.

With the first gently probing finger slipping through his rim, Percival moans softly in sympathy. “You’re so sweet to do this for your daddy,” he breathes, eyes fixed on the finger disappearing into Credence, sliding in and out with ease. He’s leaning towards him, caressing Credence’s inner thighs, lightly tracing his once again half-hard cock with the backs of his fingers--just a tease, not a stroke.

“Daddy…” Credence whispers, the want in the darkened eyes making him brave. “Daddy, can you see enough?” He shifts, gasps a little at the resulting sensation, and lies back.

“God, baby!” Percival’s hand tightens on Credence’s knee, the other grasping at the bed sheets beside him as he leans over him. “You’re such a good boy. Show me how nicely you can open up… show me...” he swallows, licks his lips, “... how well you can fit me into your sweet little hole.”

“_Oh daddy! Oooh_…” Credence is dizzy with the way Percival is talking, spurring him on. He adds the second finger and gasps at the sensation of both sliding into him. He’s contorting to offer up the best possible angle while he speeds up his thrusts, willing Percival to grow impatient and just-- “Take me, daddy!” he pleads. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

***

"Credence, I don't think I _can_ wait anymore, not if I'm actually going to do this," Graves gasps out, still hypnotised by the sight before him. "As it is, I can't promise I'll last too long." 

Credence is nodding eagerly, eyes fixed on his face and fingers pumping in and out of himself with the most obscene squelching noises. Glancing a little further up, he sees the boy is already fully hard again, looking as though he were worked up right to the brink as badly as Graves himself. 

"God, you're a fucking miracle," Graves growls, and he pushes gently back on both of Credence's thighs right below the knee. His opening spreads just a tiny bit wider, the fingers plunge a little deeper; they groan in unison at what Graves is seeing. He's never talked like this with anyone, and he _knows_ Credence hasn't. In fact, somehow he knows this is Credence's first _anything_, just the way he knows all the things he does about him without having to ask. They're connected, and they're about to make the ultimate declaration of the fact.

Graves can hardly bear to touch himself even just lightly enough to slick his cock with lube one-handed. He's so hard it hurts, and Credence whimpers at the way it makes Graves hiss before he lines himself up. They meet each other’s eyes--Credence nods with his eyebrows twisted up in a pleading look--and then Graves slips the head of his cock inside, feeling the last gentle give as Credence's body embraces him finally. 

He's winded for air at the feeling, the pure fact of _homecoming_ that he knows they both feel. But for Credence, that first careful thrust is like the breaking of a dam. His chest shudders on a long sob, and even with the boy's hands now splayed over his own face Graves hears him gasp "Oh, thank _god_, thank god…" 

"Oh fuck, oh Credence, baby…." Graves grips him by the hips and pulls him the rest of the way down onto his cock, the pleasure so good his vision goes black for a second or two. He's only got one or two more thrusts in him before he falls over the edge and it doesn't even matter because they're going to do this again and _again_. 

"Credence, you're gonna make me come… you're gonna make me come inside you, _fuck_…" 

The boy is watching his face avidly now, mouth open on a panting moan, chest flushed and heaving. "You like seeing what you do to me?" Graves asks, even as he can't believe the words coming out of his own mouth, the pure freedom of being so totally unhinged with someone who loves him. He gives his hips a snap and Credence yelps, hands fisting into the sheets at either side of himself. "You like watching daddy fuck you?" 

Credence is shaking, impaled on his cock and delirious with pleasure. Graves commits the sight to memory, along with all the dreams that brought him here. "Yes, daddy!" Credence hiccups and sobs. "Oh god, I _love_ it, fuck me… daddy I love you, I'm yours…" 

He does his best, angling his last handful of thrusts right for the place that has Credence's eyes visibly rolling back beneath his fluttering eyelashes. That's all it takes, for the both of them; Graves can hardly believe the sight of Credence painting his own chest in pearly white streaks, even as his own orgasm rocks through him like an electric shock. 

Panting, weak as a kitten and nearly faint, Graves settles down over top of his boy and cradles him still shaking in his arms. "I love you so much," he whispers, pressing kisses into the sweaty curls at the crown of his head. "You won't ever want for anything, ever again. Least of all, me." 

***

Credence clings--to Percival, and to this perfect moment he’ll remember forever. “Thank you,” he sighs, over and over between soft kisses to every inch of Percival’s face he can reach. “For loving me, for being real, for finding me!”

Percival cradles him tenderly, humming with pleasure at the tender pecks. “The first two are so very easy, darling. The third proved quite a challenge.”

“How did you?” Credence murmurs against the first trace of evening stubble; even that is somehow wonderful and perfect as everything else about the man.

Groaning a little at himself, Percival says, “I finally thought to ask Newt who makes those delicious mochachinos he’s been buying for me.”

Credence stares at him with his mouth open. “Is he the nervous guy?” He squeaks. “You mean you’re _also_ the fussy boss with the sweet tooth?” He blushes. “Oops! I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

Percival cups his cheeks. “Oh my love, you’re adorable.” He smiles. “He’s not in trouble, don’t worry. Quite the opposite, considering...” He kisses Credence tenderly for several wonderful minutes until he feels quite dazed. “Did you put a palm tree on that first mochachino?” When Credence nods, he laughs. ”I knew it! Newt tried to tell me it was a flower.”

Credence giggles, which earns him more kisses.

“Now, before we get completely carried away again… I think I should give you a quick tour of your new home, don’t you?” Percival suggests carefully, looking deep into Credence’s eyes.

Happy enough to burst, Credence nods eagerly. “Please, daddy.”

Percival smiles. “Mmm… I’m going to love hearing that in all manner of contexts.”

EPILOGUE

Graves’ arm is wrapped possessively around Credence’s shoulder as he leads him into the travel agency.

“May I help you?” asks a cheerful young agent they haven’t seen before. She directs them to two chairs on the other side of her desk.

Graves pulls out the right one for Credence, then sits beside him in the other, close enough to cover his forearm and hold his hand on the arm rest; a brilliant gold ring glints in the artificial light--a perfect match to the one on Graves’ left hand.

“We booked last week. We’re here to pick up our tickets. Three weeks on Bora Bora.”

“Oh, how lovely!” she chirps. “What names are they under?”

Graves smiles when Credence squeezes his hand, looking at him with a bright, happy expression that never seems to leave his features these days; Graves makes sure of that.

“Percival and Credence Graves,” Credence says, adding in a hushed voice as if he still can’t quite believe it, “it’s our honeymoon.”

Graves doesn’t blame him. There was a time when he too never would have believed such happiness possible. He’s learned of late that, with Credence in his life, everything is not only possible but absolutely perfect.

“Well,” the travel agent beams, “you’ve picked a perfect place for it!” 

For a moment, Graves catches Credence’s eye, drinking in the pleased flush of his cheeks before he turns back to the woman. “It’s… been a sort of dream of ours,” he says.


End file.
